


First of the New

by Praemonitor



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: (including the Finalizer), (it resolves eventually I promise), (spoilers he's Darth Plagueis), (while sitting on Kylo's lap), (who hasn't slept since 4 ABY), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Armitage Hux Has Feelings, Armitage Hux Redemption, Ben Solo Needs A Hug, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Falling In Love, Gray Jedi, Hux is So Done, Hux is a military mastermind, Kylo Ren Redemption, M/M, Mutual Pining, Poe really can fly anything, Rey flies the TIE silencer, Slow Burn, Snoke is still alive, Unresolved Sexual Tension, plot heavy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-02-07 07:50:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 76,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12836592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Praemonitor/pseuds/Praemonitor
Summary: To thwart an evil as ancient as Darth Plagueis, the newly-dubbed Rey Kenobi must reconcile with a most unlikely ally and rescue Kylo Ren from a fate worse than death. But life is cheap to the Sith. Armitage Hux and Poe Dameron learn the hard way that no one is safe, Resistance and First Order alike.In their most desperate hour, the line between darkness and light irrevocably blurs. Only together — sarcastically, reluctantly — can they defeat the true enemy and bring balance to the Force. [ Reylo & Gingerpilot with redemption arcs. Canon divergent somewhere in the middle of TLJ, since Snoke and Luke are still alive. ]Minisode I - The Knights of Ren aren't what Rey was expecting. [ Reylo ]Minisode II - Rey goes undercover as a Knight of Ren. [ Reylo ]Minisode III - Sith lords never stay dead for long. [ Reylo, ft. Hux being a boss ]Minisode IV - First Order, meet your new roommates. [ Reylo & Gingerpilot ][ Upcoming ] - Padmé's lake gown makes a comeback. [ Reylo & Gingerpilot ]





	1. Resolving of Gray

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello from a newcomer to Reylo and Gingerpilot!
> 
> First things first, mad props to the veteran Reylos who predicted 98% of Episode VIII from the moment credits rolled on Episode VII. Never have I read such eerily accurate metas, written circa 2015, now all but confirmed by official sources. Though nothing's certain yet, the Force is with us — both sides of it, since that's how we roll. :)
> 
> Though I arrived fashionably late to your well-earned Reylo celebration and the recent advent of Gingerpilot, joining in is my true and honest joy. I've been lurking in the background for months, binge-reading your fics, drooling over your art, and applauding your talent. I hope you enjoy my humble contribution. Happy Star Wars!
> 
> **Featured Ships of Minisode I**  
>  \- T-rated intro to slow burn Reylo (i.e. enemies to friends to lovers)  
> \- no Gingerpilot yet — let Hux enjoy being the villain for a little while longer
> 
> **Content Warnings for Minisode I**  
>  \- **[ Minisode Spoiler ]** anesthestic inhalant (sleeping gas) used as a nonlethal weapon  
>  \- mention of Kylo Ren's war crimes and his interrogation of Rey as a 'forcible mind probe'  
> 

**Minisode I:**  
**Resolving of Gray**

Given the short-fused notoriety of their master, Rey had certain preconceived notions about the Knights of Ren.

She knew there were seven total, counting Kylo himself. She knew they all wore black cowls and cloaks and helms. She knew they were all vaguely humanoid and Force-sensitive to some degree. And from the relative safety of the Resistance base on Crait, she studied each knight not by name, but by weapon: a quarterstaff for one, dual blasters for another, a mace, a vibro-axe, that infamous crossguard saber, so on and so forth, until Rey saw the darksiders as soulless shadows instead of people.

Simpler that way. Cut and dry. Good versus evil. Night versus day. Dark versus light.

Of course, nothing could be so simple anymore. Master Luke once warned that her own future hung shrouded in several million shades of gray — one reason, among many, he was so reluctant to train her. Over and over, Rey lied to him, to herself, denied the darkness within, desperate to embrace the light and absolutely nothing else.

But she'd much still to learn, because only a Sith deals in absolutes.

Rey was no Sith, but then neither were the Knights of Ren.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Rey remembered Starkiller so vividly, the bitter cold of a dying sun, the hiss of a lightsaber as it tore through flesh. She remembered Han Solo falling, Finn crumpled and burnt, the prickly invasion of a stranger rooting through her mind.

_"So lonely. So afraid to leave."_

And then came her retribution, the scavenger's reckoning, swift and fierce, that sweet satisfaction of painting a forest with Kylo's blood. Passion, strength, power, victory — all innately Rey, and all decidedly un-Jedi.

It wasn't her light side that defeated the master of the Knights of Ren, because her light side grew like an Endorian redwood, slow and steady, patient and indomitable, tremendous potential wrapped in a tiny seed. And at the moment, that's all it was: a sad little sprout, strong enough to levitate pebbles and not much else.

Her dark side, conversely, was a force of fucking nature.

Rey was a good person. She was. She really was. Her grandfather stood amongst the greatest Jedi ever to live, and this rediscovered kinship to Master Obi-Wan finally convinced Luke Skywalker to take one last padawan.

How could he refuse to train a Kenobi, when a Kenobi trained him?

Luke formally announced her parentage and apprenticeship after the Battle of Crait, assembling what little remained of the Resistance in those glittering crystal caves that had become their home, their base, their haven in a galaxy overrun by the First Order. At least they were alive, and at least they were together, even if stranded on a desolate salt rock in the middle of nowhere.

In a touching tribute to his late master, Luke brought his sister and her wartorn rebels to tears. "Kenobi was luminous," he reminisced, praising Obi-Wan more as deity than man, "a transparent being, a window onto the sunlit meadow of the Force." The last Jedi looked to Rey, aglow with hope. "And now, there is another."

The applause was thunderous. Rey felt sick.

Kenobi she might be, but Rey was so very far from luminous, or transparent, or a sunlit kriffing meadow. Master Obi-Wan was a noble pillar of the Republic, while his granddaughter lingered forever in the shadow of a great man. Kenobis don't use the Force to crack mountains in half or blow holes through Star Destroyers, and Kenobis definitely don't forge inadvertent Force bonds with darksiders.

Her moral compass first faltered on Starkiller Base, during that ill-fated interrogation. Kylo Ren riffled around in her head, practiced, orderly, almost bored in his search for the map to Master Luke. That is, until Rey resisted with enough gusto to dropkick his subconscious.

Unforgivably bad Force etiquette. She pleaded ignorance. But it sure got Kylo's attention, and no victory could ever top the beating of an overconfident asshole at his own game.

Rey preened, because she deserved to. _I out-Forced the master of the Knights of Ren!_

Come to learn that the human brain frowns upon such extrasensory gymnastics. Especially two stubbornly Force-sensitive brains. Only now, after many sleepless nights studying the Journal of the Whills, did Rey fully comprehend what happens when a forcible mind _probe_ devolves into a mutual mind _meld._

Nothing good, that's what.

And once the Force crossed their wires, what's scrambled can't be unscrambled. Thus, an irrevocable Force bond between the scavenger and the fallen one. An unlucky, unfortunate, cosmically inconvenient whoopsie.

As if intragalactic war weren't complicated enough already.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Their bond was a fickle thing.

Initially, they pretended it didn't exist, which worked about as well as you'd expect. This telepathic connection was tireless, daunting, undeterred by interstellar distance. When awake, Kylo slammed himself shut and maintained his mental shields with painstaking care. Apart from a vague sense that he was conscious and breathing, sometimes Rey went days without hearing a peep.

But he had to fall asleep eventually, which led to this nasty habit of projecting his nightmares: cowering helpless against a dozen blue and green sabers, self-defense gone horribly wrong, the Jedi temple reduced to rubble and flames, Snoke's disembodied voice in his ear, his father's eyes as the life snuffed out.

Soon they were both avoiding sleep, and it only made things worse.

An exhausted Kylo Ren suffered even more destructive outbursts than usual, and a groggy Rey was a reckless Rey, who let her mind leak like a sieve. And meditation with Master Luke was so profoundly boring that she had to entertain herself somehow, else she might snore.

So as any curious padawan was wont to do, Rey started… experimenting.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

For her first foray into their Force bond, Rey reached far across the stars and sorta flicked him.

No other word for it.

She telepathically flicked Kylo Ren, somewhere behind his left ear, just to see what would happen.

The bond quivered, almost imperceivable, and she glimpsed a ready room onboard the Supremacy. The First Order's once proud flagship had a sizable hole torn through her hull, compliments of one temperamental Rey Kenobi, and now underwent massive repairs at least a kiloparsec from Crait in the…

Rey squinted. Which star system was that, displayed on his datapad?

Kylo entered a passcode into the device — 7477 — and reviewed specs for the planet Kerroc.

The First Order fleet was orbiting Kerroc. Their entire navy. All thirty Resurgent-class battlecruisers and the lone surviving dreadnought.

Her heart skipped. Could this accidental bond help Rey to spy on the First Order and provide the Resistance with insider intel? Perhaps her situation was a blessing in disguise, for the Force worked in mysterious ways.

_I'm starting to sound like Master Luke._

Rey refocused on Kylo, his vision pixelated and digitized through that ungodly helmet. He reclined in his chair, only half listening to a uniformed officer across the table. Rey tried and failed to understand what the redhead general was saying, because Kylo gave exactly zero fucks.

Yet another idiosyncrasy of their bond: when Rey borrowed Kylo's ears, she couldn't hear if he wasn't listening. And guess who never paid attention during Very Important Meetings? In fact, he was dozing off, though behind his mask nobody could tell.

Rey felt a pang of unwelcome empathy. If staying awake during her meditations was a daily struggle, just imagine the grim monotony of First Order politics. Loath to discover that she and Kylo Ren shared more than a few things in common, the least of which included insomnia, lightsabers, famous grandpas, and abandonment issues.

Kylo was also beyond tired, not thinking straight, actively avoiding rest and its promise of nightmares. No wonder his shields were weakening. Rey could relate.

When she flicked his ear, Kylo absently swatted at the phantom feeling — only to remember he was wearing a helmet and there were no bugs in space. Bleary bafflement flooded their bond, which made poking him again so incredibly worth it.

This time he jerked in his chair, and that redhead general noticed.

"Something useful to contribute, Ren?" goaded the officer. "Somehow I doubt it." His name was General Hux, supplied a bitter memory that didn't belong to Rey — Armitage Hux of Arkanis, the man they call the Starkiller — and Kylo didn't like him. At all.

<Why not?> wondered Rey, directing this thought straight through the Force bond, burrowing it into him like a parasite.

In drowsy confusion, Kylo Ren mistook her question as native to his own mind, and thus answered with pure and unadulterated honesty. Or rather, Ben Solo answered. <Hux suggested firing Starkiller at D'Qar. My mother was on D'Qar.>

Though he hadn't spoken aloud, Rey heard his voice like a deafening echo inside her skull, deep and sure and steady. But when Kylo realized what just happened, that a garbage picker was snooping around his head again—

Rey felt his rage like a knife, right before he slammed an extrasensory door in her face.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Master Luke found out about the Force bond. It didn't go over well.

Rey burned with red hot shame, hating the way he looked at her: horror, trepidation, disappointment, as though she were a treacherous monster. "It was all Kylo's fault!" A paltry excuse, which Rey knew damn well wasn't entirely true. "He mucked about in my subconscious, and I defended myself!"

"Bonds are a two-way street." Luke folded his arms into his robes and shot her that condescending glare. "It's both your faults. Now explain."

Rey hung her head and told him everything about her interrogation on Starkiller Base, everything she never told another living soul. Not even Finn, her best friend, her better half, the closest she'd ever have to a brother.

After this confession, Master Luke was very grumpy. "My nephew knows better than to dig that deep into another Force-sensitive mind. And you used the dark side to extract his most primal fear and lob it in his face!" He glowered at Rey, and there it was again, that look, making her feel a centimeter tall. "What d'you have to say for yourself?"

"He deserved it!"

Luke rubbed his temples, exasperated. "Mind melds performed under duress are very volatile. You two were lucky not to suffer permanent brain damage."

_Didn’t we, though?_

Rey bit her lip. "To be fair, nobody knew I was Force-sensitive at the time. Myself included." All she wanted was to push Kylo Ren out of her mind, and instead Rey flung herself headfirst into his. Slight overcorrection.

Luke set his jaw. "This bond is suboptimal for everyone involved." Suboptimal, really? A clusterfuck is what it was, catastrophic, embarrassing, and wreaking havoc on her sleep cycle. As was the time change to Crait Local. "You're never to access it intentionally again. Is that clear?"

"Yes, master." Rey scuffed her boot. No more flicking ears. Pity.

"And in the unlikely event that Ren attempts to kindle it, shut him out."

"I'll try, master." The Journal of the Whills said that a Force bond will weaken with disuse, but never truly break, so Rey would lock the door to her mind, seal it tight, suffocate her connection to Kylo until it withered beyond repair. Hopefully.

Luke touched her face, then her hair, where it hung loose about her shoulders. No more buns. _"The belonging you seek isn't behind you. It is ahead."_ Rey often wondered if Maz Kanata had foreseen this Jedi apprenticeship, or maybe... something else.

Her master had a gentle heart, weighed heavy with grief and guilt. Luke apologized, in a way, for his temper. "I've lost too much to darkness. I failed my father, my sister, my nephew, my friends." He steeled himself. "I must not fail Obi-Wan. I must not fail you."

Rey wanted to cry. Luke Skywalker was a hero, a legend, the last Jedi. Just once, he deserved a good apprentice, an unproblematic apprentice. Instead he got Ben Solo, then a morally ambiguous scavenger. "I— I know I'm not what anybody wanted." Rey sniffled. Why did she always ruin everything? _No wonder my family left me for dead on Jakku._ "I know my grandfather would be disappointed with me."

Luke was stricken. "No, no, padawan. Never think that. Obi-Wan is proud of all you are, all you were, all you will become." He hugged her, kissing her forehead, and Rey clung to her master like a lifeline. "He told me so himself."

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Master Luke kept the bond between Kylo Ren and Rey a secret, even from General Organa.

Nobody else in the Resistance understood the dangers inherent to Rey Kenobi: how she tiptoed that fine line between day and night, how inextricably linked she was to the master of the Knights of Ren, nor the terror she could unleash if darkness consumed her. At night, Rey curled into her bunk in the barracks on Crait, surrounded by friends who'd become family, and hoped they never saw this unholy thing inside her.

What if Leia looked at her the way Luke had? What if Jess and Rose and Kaydel and Poe hated her forever? What if Finn forsook her out of fear, because Rey was a Force-sensitive freak who could tear starships asunder and sink islands into the sea?

Sometimes she even scared herself, dreaming dreams of a mirror world where she left Jakku with yellow eyes and a red saberstaff, and woke from the nightmare screaming.

"The Sith are gone," she whispered into her pillow, like a secret prayer. "I'm not a Sith."

But if she wasn't quite a Jedi either, then what was she?

Alone in the dark and stillness, shields at half-mast and overflowed with her worst fear, something flicked Rey behind the left ear. A familiar voice snaked through their Force bond, low and tempting. <Maybe you're a Knight of Ren.>

She beat back Kylo with a telepathic stick, but didn't sleep well for days.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Weeks went by before the bond burst open again, at no fault of Rey's.

Kylo trained every morning with the other Knights of Ren, and he ran a rather strict outfit. Rey noticed only because his heart rate ticked alongside hers like a metronome, beat for beat, and his pulse accelerated like clockwork at 0600 hours, Galactic Standard.

This consistently woke her at 0300 hours, Crait Local, and was beyond annoying.

Rey tried everything to tune him out. She meditated. She built a durasteel fortress in her mind. She even tried those pills from Dr. Kalonia, but who could sleep while their body suffered sympathy pain from someone else's workout? Cardio, then weights, then sparring.

The athlete in Rey admired his endurance, all while hoping Kylo Ren might do her a favor and die from running ten kilometers in forty minutes.

One morning like any other, Rey sat sleepless in the mess hall, alone and brooding at the asscrack of dawn, when Kylo must've misstepped during a practice duel. His heart was racing, his muscles screaming. From halfway across the quadrant, she felt a quarterstaff clobber him upside the head. No mental shield could cushion Rey from that.

She saw stars, blacked out, and suddenly wasn't on Crait anymore.

> Rey was aboard the Supremacy again, seeing the world through Kylo's eyes. He stood in a rec room, surrounded by six other black-cowled knights, and sans helmet today. In retrospect, he regretted it. His head hurt like hell.
> 
> His sparring partner leaned on a very swanky quarterstaff, much fancier than Rey's. "Watch yourself, master." The knight also wore a vented mask with a vocoder. "Don't get sloppy in your old age."
> 
> An underling dared to strike Kylo, then openly mock him? Quite a far cry from what Rey expected. The Knights of Ren were supposed to be perfectly obedient and zealous killers, more machine than man, blindly subservient, mindlessly devoted — weren't they?
> 
> When the offender unmasked, to say Rey was surprised would be a gross understatement.
> 
> This knight was a woman, an absurdly beautiful woman, with long lashes and freckles everywhere and auburn hair in utilitarian braids. She couldn't be much older than Rey, and something about her seemed oddly familiar. Maybe it was her staff, or even her accent?
> 
> Both were rather like Rey's too, if Rey had spent her childhood in the posh Core with a governess and tutors and all the credits in the galaxy.
> 
> Kylo nursed the welt on his forehead, beckoning this knight closer. Surely he'd rain fire and brimstone for her insolence and insubordination. Some harsh punishment, maybe a Force choke? Instead came praise, every bit the proud mentor.
> 
> "Well struck, Aurra." Despite being whacked on the head, Kylo was pleased. "You've been practicing Mandalorian technique. I can tell."
> 
> Through their bond came a wild revelation. Rey nearly swallowed her own tongue, because who knew that Kylo Ren enjoyed teaching? She sensed his deep and personal investment in each knight, whom he handpicked for their raw power and untapped potential with the Force. This had nothing to do with the First Order, or Snoke, or subjugating the galaxy, or being evil for evil's sake.
> 
> Kylo saw himself in his acolytes, and the Knights of Ren served him because they chose to.
> 
> This was… new information.
> 
> _"I can show you the ways of the Force!"_ suddenly gained another disturbing dimension.
> 
> Aurra puffed with pride. "Yes, master. The books we discussed were most helpful." She also bowed in gratitude at another knight, the mountain of a man holding a mace, and then blew kisses at a little black astromech, who lurked in the corner like BB-8's evil twin. "Caedus Ren and Beebee-Niney ran drills with me as well."
> 
> _A team,_ mused Rey, utterly perplexed.
> 
> The darksiders were a team, just like Black Squadron and the Pathfinders and even the Jedi. The Knights of Ren supported each other, helped each other, looked out for each other. How lovely must it be to train with other padawans, to debate saber theory with your peers and ask them dumb questions and bitch about meditation together?
> 
> Rey felt so alone on Crait, so removed, so different. Luke Skywalker was kind, but distant, too austere and too jilted to laugh at himself anymore. And bless the hearts of Finn and Poe, Rose and Jess and Kaydel and all the droids, but talk of the Force met with lost looks and blank stares.
> 
> Back in that rec room aboard the Supremacy, the Knights of Ren were deep in discussion about combat styles, impressed how Aurra had hooked her quarterstaff under Kylo's saber, using its crossguard against him. A clever concept, and rather crafty, especially if Rey ever found herself rematching a certain someone.
> 
> She filed away this fun fact for a rainy day.
> 
> The knights rotated partners to spar anew, and their master paid each of his six acolytes equal attention. He even gave BB-9E an unnecessary pat on the head, met with ominous warbling. But during her next duel, Aurra Ren was overtly distracted. She kept glancing over her shoulder, checking on Kylo and his prominent bruise. Inconsequential, compared to the scar from Rey, and nothing a little bacta couldn't fix.
> 
> Nevertheless, she veiled genuine worry with biting humor. "Need some ice, old man?"
> 
> Kylo raised a brow. "Don't push me," he warned, but it carried no venom.

And when Rey jerked awake, back to the deserted mess hall and slumped in her chair, an unwelcome knot of jealousy caught in her throat. She tried her damnedest to play the dutiful apprentice: practiced her forms, studied her histories, obeyed Master Luke as best she could. But training a padawan in isolation wasn't the norm.

During their heyday, it took a village to raise well-rounded Jedi, and families sent their Force-sensitive children to the temple in infancy. At first, Rey wondered if that was entirely fair. Should an organization be allowed to recruit younglings into lifelong service, before they could make that choice for themselves?

Finn said the First Order did something eerily similar in its acquisition of stormtroopers, and that was abhorrent on so many levels.

But then again, Rey also knew how scary it was to discover her Force powers in adulthood, wholly unprepared, no kriffing clue why she could summon objects to her hand or invade another's mind. If she'd lived a century earlier and her midi-chlorian count been measured at birth, Rey might've grown up on glittering Coruscant instead of a shithole like Jakku.

That didn't sound so terrible.

Luke said the Jedi were once a family. They played together as children and learned together as padawans. They worked together as knights and fought together as masters. They lived together, died together, found the Force together. Masters chose their acolytes, and acolytes chose their masters.

Imagine how much further along Rey would be if she commenced training at age one, instead of nineteen? Imagine the benefits of studying alongside Force-sensitives her own age, under dozens of masters with different specialties?

Rey and Luke only had each other now, the Jedi extinct but for two.

Sith lords once operated on the Rule of Two, and it traditionally ended in murder.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Formidable and terrifying as Kylo Ren might be, he was also the galaxy's biggest bookworm.

And for the record, Rey didn't eavesdrop into his private life on purpose. She honestly didn't. Master Luke forbade her from intentionally accessing the bond, and she was to lockdown her mind if Kylo ever came knocking — which happened a grand total of once. Such rules were easy enough to follow, theoretically.

But in that place between sleep and awake, the Force didn't much care for rules.

On the rare occasion he let himself relax, Kylo usually dozed off reading.

Real books too, paper and ink, not those digital knockoffs from the HoloNet. Kylo horded stacks upon stacks of books, all with yellow pages and dusty jackets. In his otherwise spartan lodgings onboard the First Order flagship, he custom built a window seat into his viewport. This became a reading nook, and his dreams were less fitful when he slept there.

Something about the starlight?

Oh, and he also kept a secret stash of Chandrilan tea, hidden behind that loose panel in his refresher. Such luxuries were forbidden in the ascetic First Order, but no one dared to strip search Kylo Ren's bathroom.

Top secret intel, right there. Thanks a bunch, Force bond.

Of course, none of these domesticities changed the fact he was a war criminal, and a patricidal madman, and a brainwashed flunky, and a Jedi killer. But observing from afar, day by day, hour by hour, glimpse by glimpse, Rey found it harder and harder to ignore the living, breathing person under that cowl. Not just a creature in a mask.

For fuck's sake, do all darksiders pad barefoot around their quarters, drinking herbal tea and devouring books like a hungry sarlacc? Kylo read arcane religious tomes and encyclopedias of history. He read essays on saber theory and compendiums on every sentient species in the galaxy. He read technical manuals on Upsilon-class command shuttles and TIE silencers. He read treatises on military strategy and analyses of the greatest battles ever fought.

Tonight, he was rereading the Journal of the Whills at breakneck speed.

His copy was a priceless first edition, originally printed and bound by monks in the Holy City of Jedha. Old, well worn, its hardcover embossed with what eventually became the winged emblem of the Jedi. Precious few artifacts survived the cataclysmic destruction of Jedha City, but Rey immediately recognized this one.

She had the exact same book, the exact same edition on her nightstand, 'borrowed' from Luke's library on Ahch-To. She'd read it seven times already, cover to cover, and was working on the eighth.

Across their bond, Kylo's frustration mounted, eyelids heavy, wrestling against sleep, leafing through the Journal. He was determined, impatient, the slightest bit frantic. Upset too, maybe even desperate, searching its pages for something very specific. Rey knew that book like the back of her hand, and an impulse to help overrode logic or self-preservation.

A Kenobi vice, unfortunately.

They might be worlds apart, in different corners of the galaxy, but physical distance didn't hamper a Force bond. To draw his attention from reading, she flicked Kylo behind the left ear. Again.

<Whatcha looking for?> Rey was obnoxiously loud, or the telepathic equivalent of loud.

Unprepared to hear her voice, Kylo spilled his tea in surprise — nose buried the Journal of the Whills, pacing his room, drowsy and distracted. But he sprang into action thereafter, launching a counterattack, scrambling to raise his shields, ready to fight back.

Rey hurled herself into the doorjamb of his mind. <Parley, parley!>

He hesitated, torn two ways. The First Order wouldn't honor her right of parley, but pirates and smugglers held it sacred. And the very best smuggler in the galaxy must've left some impression on his wayward son, because Kylo Ren — _knock knock, Ben Solo_ — begrudgingly agreed to a ceasefire. For now.

He hadn't the time or energy to fight her.

His defenses crumbled, hers collapsed — and their bond bloomed like a flower, colorful and resplendent, squashed for months and finally free. What a welcome reprieve from perpetual exhaustion, from maintaining a mental fortress all day, every day. Rey basked in it, breathing deep, relaxing muscles she didn't even know she had.

Kylo did the same, and tension released with a sudden snap. Oh. _Oh._

Having resisted for so long, surrender was exquisite. And to experience the Force as it flowed seamlessly between two living beings, like a river, like a bloodstream, pulsing and warm and deep. Rey breathed the ultimate sigh of relief, already addicted, and Kylo groaned low in his throat, completely blindsided.

Nothing else could ever feel this sublime.

Well, maybe one other thing. Rey wouldn't know. Not from personal experience, anyway.

<No eligible bachelors on Jakku.> She snickered to herself.

<Don't be juvenile.> Kylo Ren was also a prude, apparently. Useful to know.

Rey still simmered with guilt on the backburner. She had one job, one measly job: don't intentionally access the bond. And this time, she'd no excuse. This wasn't an oops. Nobody was sleeping. Nobody had been bashed on the head. This was disobedience, pure and simple.

Master Luke would be furious.

But in that instant, truly at peace for the first time since Starkiller, Rey didn't give a single solitary fuck. <I know the Journal of the Whills by heart.> She might regret this later. <Tell me what you're looking for.>

Kylo was stubborn as hell. <None of your business, scavenger.>

<I can help, if you let me.> Her offer hung heavy between them. <I promise.>

He turned the book over and over in his hands, tapping his foot, then scrubbed a palm down his face. <I need to find an unabridged version of the Tragedy of Darth Plagueis the Wise.> Kylo cautiously elaborated. <As a matter of urgency.>

Rey snorted. <What's so urgent about a fairytale?>

<Will you help me or not?>

Rey waffled. Not that he asked for classified intel or means to seduce her from the light, but something about his request seemed deceptive. Kylo withheld information, something important, and she didn't like it. But a promise was a promise.

<Chapter 6, Verse 66.>

He flipped furiously through the Journal, and at 6:66 was everything you'd ever want to know about Darth Plagueis. A perfectly wretched tale, altered with each retelling, but always about an esoteric Sith lord obsessed with cheating death. As written in the Journal of the Whills, he went so far as to become a parasite upon other Force-sensitives. Essence transfer, Plagueis called this alchemical technique, by which he lingered beyond death as an incorporeal wraith, possessing victim after victim, perpetually hunting for a younger, stronger host as his old one decayed.

Under different names, different guises, Darth Plagueis survived this way for millennia, effectively immortal. He would groom a powerful acolyte in the dark side of the Force, and when the time was right, evict their soul and steal their body for his own. But one apprentice discovered the ruse and wasn't too keen on it.

He killed his master before Plagueis could kill him. The end.

An especially gruesome ghost story. <Light bedtime reading about the pure evil that is essence transfer?> Rey shivered with a sudden, unshakable dread. <I'd never wish such a foul thing on anyone.>

His interest piqued. <Not even on me?>

Her reaction was visceral. <Nobody deserves to die like that.> Kylo was taken aback by her conviction, but Rey held firm. <I don't care who you are or what you've done.>

And why was he wasting time on a myth, a campfire story to frighten children? Any practical knowledge of essence transfer — if it ever existed at all — died alongside the Sith, when Darths Vader and Sidious turned against each other during the Battle of Endor.

And yet, Rey felt a prickle along her spine.

She used to think Luke Skywalker was a myth too.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Later that night, around 0100 hours, Crait Local, Rey woke from a dead sleep, consumed with coughing. Her throat hurt; perhaps she'd caught that respiratory virus getting passed around the Resistance base? But as she reached for the canteen on her nightstand, something flicked her behind the left ear. Very weak, very wobbly, though intensely familiar.

Rey suddenly realized it wasn't her who was coughing.

It was Kylo Ren.

He was hurt, trapped somewhere, could barely walk, could scarcely breath. His distress hit her like a blaster bolt, and their bond had never burned quite so hot before. The Force itself was screeching, convulsing, catapulting scents and sounds and nonsensical images at Rey.

"Kylo?" She bolted upright in bed, shouting into her empty room. "Ben?!"

But he wasn't there. They weren't even in the same star system. Kylo was more than a kiloparsec away and still onboard the Supremacy, as far as Rey knew. What was happening? Who would attack the master of the Knights of Ren aboard the First Order flagship? And how could she possibly help from halfway across the quadrant?

_Use the Force._

At a loss, Rey dropped every shield she had, threw the doors of her mind wide open, but received nothing more than a random, panicked barrage. Sickly sweetness hung in the air around Kylo, dense and suffocating. The floor was freezing cold beneath his bare feet — tile, yes, he was standing on tile, leaning on the sink in his refresher.

Vision blurred, brain muddy, but he clutched something in his hand. Maybe a datapad?

Like a drowning man, he reached out to Rey, his only hope to stay afloat, and she grabbed for Kylo too. He slipped through her fingers, fading fast, but sent one last image across their bond, purposeful and semi-coherent: the datapad, his datapad, hidden behind that loose panel in his refresher, right beside the Chandrilan tea.

When he finally lost consciousness, a chill pierced Rey to the core.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Seven days later, Kylo Ren was still in a coma.

Or what Rey deduced was a coma, given he was neither asleep nor dead. Though his heart beat slow and steady, his thoughts were blank and dark and dreamless. Once upon a time, she resented their Force bond, hated it with her every fiber, but Rey became acutely aware of his absence now.

Not that she missed him or anything. And she wasn't worried about him. Obviously not. What a ridiculous notion. 

But every few hours since he'd been attacked — abducted maybe, or taken hostage? — Rey flicked Kylo behind the left ear, trying and failing to rouse him. That ear-flick was their equivalent of a secret handshake, an extrasensory passcode, a telepathic knock, and he hadn't answered the door in a week.

Rey wondered if she ought to sound the alarm, if she should tell somebody about this. Ben Solo was a Skywalker by blood. Were he in danger, surely Luke and Leia would care. But the only information Rey could provide was, "I have a bad feeling about this," and what could they possibly do about it? Even a mother's love didn't change the fact that Kylo Ren was a First Order goon, a reviled enemy of the Republic.

If he spent the rest of his life in a vegetative state, the Resistance would say good riddance. And if he were killed, they'd probably throw a parade.

By day eight, Rey finally admitted the truth. _I'm worried about him._ Really kriffing worried.

Turns out, she wasn't the only one.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Air raid sirens wailed through the Resistance base, while Black Squadron mustered for battle.

Amid shouts and chaos, Rey skidded into command central, saber at the ready, just in time to hear a tactical report delivered to General Organa and Master Luke. "First Order shuttle incoming. Upsilon-class." Finn punched a few buttons at his console, adjusting scanners. "Entering weapons range in thirty seconds."

Leia paused, diplomat before soldier. "One shuttle?" She did a doubletake at the monitor. "A single shuttle is attacking us?"

Finn checked the readouts. "Yes, ma'am. Just one." His brow furrowed. "They're hailing you by name, General Organa."

Luke shot his sister an odd look. "Awfully polite for political extremists."

"Patch them through."

Audio crackled to life, and a furious female voice boomed. "I am Aurra Ren, second in command of the Knights of Ren." No vocoder today, and her accent sounded so uncannily similar to Rey's. "I demand to speak directly with Leia Organa of Alderaan."

"This is she."

Rage incited her. "You and your rebel scum are holding my master hostage, as a prisoner of war." Aurra did a rather convincing impression of someone with command experience, but anxiety and doubt laced her words. Even over the comlink, she sounded young. "You will release Master Ren immediately and— "

Leia interrupted her. "Sorry, sweetie, but Ben's not home right now." She raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms, looking every bit the matron. "May I take a message?"

"You think this is a joke?!"

"It must be." A sore subject for the general. "Why would my son be on Crait?"

Aurra erupted. "Because he's missing!" Now that was fear, not anger. "Somebody took him!"

This news came as a complete and utter surprise to everybody in the room, except Rey, so the Resistance required a few seconds to regroup.

Breaking the stunned silence, Finn deadpanned. "Somebody stole Kylo Ren?"

Rey glanced to Master Luke, who furtively shook his head. "Whatever you know," he whispered in her ear, "say nothing."

In retrospect, she should've talked to Leia earlier, privately, with or without her brother's approval, because that woman looked ready to tear the galaxy apart in search of her son. Governments and politics and Jedi be damned. "Forgive my confusion." General Organa collected herself, but her Force signature swirled like a hurricane. "Did you say Ben Solo is missing in action?"

Aurra sneered, a darksider at heart, who saw her chance and ran with it. " _Ben Solo_ went missing in action seven years ago." A cruel jab, given the circumstances. " _Master Ren_ was brutally attacked in his own quarters, taken captive by an unidentified faction, and secreted off the Supremacy." She swallowed hard, loud enough to hear over the comlink. "No one has seen or heard from him in eight days."

And eight nights ago, Rey witnessed that exact assault, play by play, watching in helpless horror as the once indomitable Kylo Ren fell to his knees. Who or what was powerful enough to take a Force-sensitive unawares? Had anyone in the First Order found that datapad, hidden in his refresher, which would undoubtedly solve the mystery?

Perhaps she should tell the Knights of Ren. Perhaps she could help.

But Master Luke said to keep her mouth shut, so that's what Rey did. For now.

General Organa leaned into the comlink, punctuating each word. "I'm sorry, Lady Aurra, but your master is not here." Her brilliant mind was racing, planning, plotting. "And as a motion of goodwill, I invite you to search the base yourself."

Though her fellow officers hollered with objection — security breach, it's a trap, etcetera — Leia told them to switch off. This interrogation wasn't over, not by a long shot.

Aurra was reasonably suspicious. "Why, so you can set your Jedi on us?"

 _Us,_ noted Rey. More than one Knight of Ren on that shuttle, and all worried sick about Kylo.

Leia Organa was a peacemaker at her core. With precious few clues to her son's whereabouts, Aurra held most of them. "For the foreseeable future, you and I share a common goal." The general made her best offer. "And I swear upon the blood of Alderaan, you will be safe under my roof."

Communications went dead for at least a minute, before Aurra came back online. "Where should we park?"

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Rey was correct. Aurra didn't come to Crait alone.

With her on this fool's errand were Caedus and Janus Ren, as well as an irate BB-9E. They left all weapons onboard their shuttle and searched the Resistance base with a fine-tooth comb. Of course, no sign of their master, and apart from BB-8 and that First Order astromech getting along like water and turpentine, the whole affair was downright boring.

Unmasked and robed all in black, the Knights of Ren reconvened with General Organa in command central. They'd much still to discuss, especially since this transgalactic search for Kylo was thus far futile. As the knights entered, Poe Dameron and his squadron came to attention, with Rose Tico and Finn and Kaydel Ko Connix hovering warily nearby.

On cue, Master Luke and Rey stood from the council table and bowed stiffly at the waist, Jedi style, because Force-sensitives ought to respect other Force-sensitives. Too few left in the galaxy nowadays.

The darksiders weren't so cultured, and a certain scavenger's reputation preceded her. All three knights froze in their tracks and stared unblinking — not at the galactic legend that was Luke Skywalker, not at the ace pilots who destroyed Starkiller Base, not at the infamous traitor FN-2187, but instead at humble Rey, the garbage picker who carved up their master.

Aurra crossed her arms. " _That's_ the girl?" She seemed disappointed, and BB-9E chirped a disparaging chirp.

"Aww," said Caedus, as belittling as possible. "She's so small and cute."

Janus quirked his head, insatiably curious. "Why didn't Master Ren just snap her in half?"

"How about I snap you in half?" suggested Rey, earning Luke's elbow to her ribs.

She felt no fear, no surprise, no intimidation, because Rey had already met the Knights of Ren, albeit through Kylo's eyes. Months ago, she learned their names, their weapons, their strengths and weaknesses. Aurra the duelist, Janus the marksman, Caedus the heavy artillery. Qalar the tech guru, Ulic the assassin, Sedriss the pilot. Rey experienced their intensive training firsthand — the rec room, the spars, the early morning cardio — but they'd never even seen her face before now.

And as Rey neglected to tell her friends about the Force bond, so did Kylo neglect to tell his acolytes.

Beyond diplomatic niceties, the Knights of Ren refused to sit at a council table with armed Jedi, preferring instead to stand, so General Organa cut to the chase. "Does the First Order know you're here?"

Knee-deep in high treason, Aurra shrugged. "We're still alive, so apparently not."

"If General Hux catches us in bed with the Resistance," explained Janus, "we're dead men walking."

Tidbits from Caedus were most intriguing. "He thinks we're en route to Mustafar, expanding our search for Master Ren." He tapped a metal buckle on his belt. Each knight wore something similar, Kylo included. "Qalar rigged our trackers to transmit false coordinates. The shuttle's nav too."

Impressive hacking, elegant and subtle, which launched Resistance intelligence into an envious tizzy. Compliments of her bond with his master, Rey became quite familiar with the secret weapon that was Qalar Ren: youngest and greenest of the knights, but an expert slicer who singlehandedly wrote the First Order's encryption algorithms for every comlink, every code cylinder, every battlecruiser and dreadnought. His bio-hexacrypt ciphers were notoriously uncrackable, the source of much grief and cursing and dead ends for the Resistance.

Leia had stopped listening at the word 'trackers.' "Was Ben wearing his— "

"Of course not." Aurra glared daggers, loathed to repeat herself. "I told you. My master was abducted from his quarters in the dead of night." Nothing but blank stares from Poe and Black Squadron. She rolled her eyes. "Master Ren doesn't sleep in full battle regalia, laser brains."

Rey already knew that too, because Kylo slept in a sleeveless undershirt and low slung pants with a drawstring he never tied. The Force bond afforded no shame, nor privacy, and how dare her archnemesis have forearms and biceps that cut? Rude, just rude, and the consequence of grueling daily workouts at 0600.

Best never to think on it, now or ever.

Finn argued a solid point. "Damn near impossible for some random bounty hunter to sneak onboard a heavily fortified Star Destroyer, subdue the most dangerous Force-sensitive in the galaxy, and smuggle him out unnoticed." He was perplexed, as though this should've been obvious to First Order agents. "If Ren really were attacked in his quarters, there'd be security footage from the hallway outside."

True, except his assailant tampered with the holocams and timed all action to coincide precisely with a guard rotation. Whoever took Kylo also took every precaution against getting caught, and sliced into the flagship's mainframe, her patrol schedule, her layout. Those firewalls weren't as impenetrable as previously thought.

And while his fellow knights scoured the galaxy for their master, Qalar Ren had remained aboard the Supremacy, an inside man at the scene of the crime, to work his computer mojo and figure out what the flying fuck happened.

"You know how overprotective Q can be." Caedus and his comrades chuckled at an inside joke, awash with brotherly affection, then grew serious again. "He's an absolute wreck. Feels responsible."

"None of this is his fault." Aurra shook her head, deeply sincere. "Nobody's ever hacked his systems before."

Janus snorted. "Tell that to Hux." All three knights glowered with distain, like master, like acolytes, and BB-9E beeped a hateful little beep. "He refused to aid Qalar with the internal investigation. Told him to clean up his own mess."

Leaning against a bulkhead, Poe Dameron chimed in, sass for days. "What if Ren went on a covert mission, need-to-know basis?" He raised a brow. "And maybe you paranoid nerfherders didn't need to know."

"Master Ren never leaves without saying goodbye." Aurra said it with such simplicity, such certainty, such fervor. From her seat at the council table, General Organa wore an unreadable expression. "And there were signs of a struggle."

Poe scrunched his nose. "Easy enough to fake."

Infuriated now, Aurra argued on. "We also found his— "

Janus yanked her arm. "Don't tell them!"

Caedus rubbed his hands together, anxious as hell. "The Jedi will confiscate it for sure."

Every officer within earshot went to red alert, waiting with bated breath, while Rey perked with interest. Had they found the loose panel in Kylo's refresher, recovered the datapad and unlocked what clues he left behind? Perhaps the Knights of Ren had no need for Rey or the Force bond. Perhaps she could melt into her chair, forever uninvolved, and keep this connection to Kylo a dirty little secret for all eternity.

Aurra ignored the other knights, wearing the look of a woman with nothing left to lose. "I've no doubt Master Ren was taken from the Supremacy by force, because we found this on the floor in his quarters." She reached into her robes and produced unequivocal proof.

Kylo's crossguard saber.

He'd never part with it. Not willingly.

And in that moment, many things happened at once, because the darksiders were supposed to disarm before entering the Resistance base. Onlookers shrank in terror, while Leia stood so fast that her chair toppled over. Like human shields, Finn and Poe flung themselves in front of her, drawing their blasters. Master Luke unsheathed his own lightsaber, preparing for the worst.

And as for Rey— well, Rey had a choice to make.

Tense moments ticked by, but Aurra didn't attack, didn't threaten, didn't even ignite the blade. She simply set her master's saber on the council table, amongst the fine layer of Craitan dust, then slammed down her fists.

"Every second we waste is one closer to losing him forever." She was berating herself, not them.

Only then Rey noticed that Aurra's cheeks were wet, and there it was again: her overwhelming impulse to help, to fix things, superseding sense and rationality. A Kenobi vice. Suddenly, that once impossible choice was made for her.

General Organa stepped forward, tentative and watchful. "I have resources the First Order doesn't." Maybe not credits or weapons or technology, but all that is gold does not glitter. "I might be able to— "

"What use are you and your troglodytes?!" Adrift and hopeless, Aurra gestured about Resistance headquarters, crusted with salt water and red ochre, thoroughly unimpressed. "Your equipment is archaic, and your base is a kriffing cave at the edge of the galaxy."

Caedus tried to calm her. "We'll never give up, A." Easily the largest man Rey had ever seen, a Chiss with vibrant blue skin and fire red eyes, he engulfed Aurra into a surprisingly tender hug, cradling her head against his massive shoulder. "We'll find Master Ren, I promise— "

"Don't promise her that." Janus, the brutal realist. "For all we know, he's already dead."

Leia opened her mouth to say something, but Rey condemned herself first. "Kylo Ren is not dead."

And with that, a hundred sets of eyes focused solely upon her.

Master Luke went ghost white. "Padawan." He was afraid, but _for_ her or _of_ her remained unclear. "Don't do this."

"I must, master. I have to tell the truth." How would Rey live with herself otherwise? Her stomach tied itself in knots, and the Force skittered along her spine. "I'm sorry, but I've not been entirely honest with you."

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

No more lies.

Rey confessed to six months of secrets between her and Kylo Ren: the interrogation on Starkiller Base, their inadvertent mind meld, the Force bond from hell, the insomnia and dreamsharing and telepathic chats, the unexplained attack that rendered him comatose for eight days and counting.

No one else spoke, no one else even breathed, until Aurra rounded on the other knights.

"I told you so." She huffed with victory. "I told you something was off about Master Ren, but nobody listened."

Janus rubbed his eyes. "Must we make everything about you?"

Finn slumped into the seat beside Rey, lost in thought, staring absently at that crossguard saber atop the table. Innocuous now, it was the very same weapon that almost killed him.

"A Force bond, huh?" Finn contemplated the phrase, diligent as always. "Did you ever try to break it?"

Rey nodded in defeat. "I did." She picked at her nails. "And I broke a mountain instead."

Very little frightened her anymore, but losing Finn topped the list. He'd every right to hate her, to judge and abandon her. Rey had betrayed him in the most visceral and intimate way, lied by omission, indulging her connection with the monster who nearly severed Finn's spine.

She was the worst friend in the entire universe.

And though she didn't deserve it, Rey begged his forgiveness. "The bond was an accident, I swear. A terrible mistake."

"But the Force doesn't make mistakes. It brought me to you for a reason." So earnest, so giving, Finn was the light side incarnate, the very soul of charity and goodness and mercy in a galaxy ravaged by war. He sighed with understanding and acceptance. "It bound you to Kylo Ren for a reason too."

Somehow that made her feel even worse. Was there no hope? Was she doomed to darkness from the start? At odds with her own heart, battling indecision, Rey ultimately looked away from Master Luke, away from General Organa, away from everyone who wasn't Finn — her conscience, her island, her gunner, her brother.

He took her hands in his, squeezing tight, never letting go.

"We're the good guys. We're the Resistance." Finn sounded so very proud to say it and mean it this time around. "And when somebody asks for help, we answer." He looked about the room to Black Squadron and the Skywalkers and all the rest. "We don't always understand each other, and we don't always agree, but what family does?"

He smiled, bright as a binary sunset, then petitioned directly to General Organa and her officers.

"I trust Rey more than anyone in this life." Finn was so sure, so steady. "And if this bond compels her to help the Knights of Ren— " He set his jaw, steadfast. " —then the Force is with her, and so am I."

The darksiders were less enthused, grumbling amongst themselves. "FN-2187 is very forgiving," snorted Janus, "and stupidly naïve."

Rey raised her hackles, softness gone, storm clouds brewing. "Speak another word against Finn. I dare you," came her threat, cold and cruel and cutthroat. Let them see just how fast this luminous, sunlit Kenobi could transform into a tornado. "Because without my help, your precious master will rot forever, fuck knows where, lost in a half-dead purgatory."

Silence fell upon the Knights of Ren and Master Luke and the Resistance, who too often saw the world as dark versus light, bad versus good, us versus them. Rey knew better now, her monochrome vision expanded into a dizzying kaleidoscope.

So foretells the Journal of the Whills. _"The difference, they say, is only made right by the resolving of gray through refined Jedi sight."_

She approached Aurra Ren, a fellow warrior who cared too damn much about her friends. "I want to help you. I want to help Kylo." And gods forgive her, Rey meant it. Their bond felt so empty without his bad attitude on the other end. "But the Resistance isn't the First Order. Our house, our rules."

After a few quizzical and dubious looks, the darksiders came to a wordless accord. Their loyalty went first to their master — not to Snoke, not to Hux, not even to the First Order.

Aurra stepped forward, BB-9E weaving and warbling about her feet. "It's a deal, scavenger."

A truce hard won, doing what Kenobis did best. During the Clone Wars, her grandfather's gift for thwarting violence through diplomacy earned Obi-Wan a nickname: the Negotiator. And lucky for Rey, that shit was as genetic as Skywalker theatrics.

She exhaled a long held breath. "I don't know who took Kylo, or how, or why." Rey wished she did, wished this terrible limbo would end. In his final moments of consciousness, Kylo had reached out through their bond — once a curse, now a blessing — to show her where that datapad was hidden. If answers existed, they were there. "But I know how to find out."

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Using a sophisticated comlink, secure and encrypted, Aurra contacted Qalar Ren aboard the Supremacy, then shoved the crackling device at Rey.

Qalar didn't sound happy. "Start talking, Kenobi."

Rey spoke into the comlink. "Are you in Kylo's quarters?"

"Affirmative."

"Find the loose panel in his 'fresher." She closed her eyes, searched her memory. "Near the sink. Check behind it."

"Copy that. Standby," answered Qalar, all business. There was some shuffling, the scrape of metal on metal, and then an echoing thud. "Ah, so that's where Master Ren hides his Chandrilan tea during bunk inspection."

Once and always siblings, Leia whispered an aside to Luke. "The smuggler is strong in my family."

Their encrypted comlink hissed and sputtered, but held strong. "Still searching." By the sound of it, Qalar dug deeper behind the panel. After a few more seconds of static, he whooped. "Got a datapad here." They heard a few beeps and whirrs. "Passcode required. I can slice into the— "

"7477," blurted Rey. Kylo entered it during a briefing, months ago, when she first abused their bond and flicked his ear.

A few more blips, then jackpot. "We're in." Qalar went silent for a moment. "Datapad last accessed by Master Ren, eight days ago, 0400 hours, to record a holovid."

Eight days ago, very early morning by Galactic Standard. That fit the estimated time of Kylo's disappearance.

BB-9E screeched with impatience. Astromechs were loyal little droids, and this one an unmitigated asshole to boot. Rey thought back to BB-8, when Poe Dameron went missing on Jakku — how frantic he was to find his master, how devastated he'd been about the TIE crash. Those two BB-units fought ceaselessly, tormenting and chasing each other while screaming in binary, but they really weren't so different, stripped down to their nuts and bolts.

Still referring to the droids. Obviously. No metaphors here.

Equally thrilled by this breakthrough was Aurra, who grabbed the comlink. "Send the message to Niney." 

"Way ahead of you," said Qalar. "Upload complete."

BB-9E wasted no time projecting the holovid, and a life-sized Kylo Ren suddenly materialized in Resistance headquarters. Even crackly, translucent, and tinged blue, he struck an imposing figure: enormous, towering, well over six feet of black clothes and bad temper.

Several seasoned officers took an impulsive step backward, and his image even jarred Rey, if unexpectedly. The Force bond made any distance between them seem minuscule, but they hadn't even stood on the same planet since Starkiller.

She'd also forgotten how tall Kylo was, thick and built like durasteel. _I still kicked his sorry ass into the snow._

What's more, the holographic Kylo Ren was absent a helmet and cowl, clad in familiar sleep clothes, dark hair unkempt, with the faintest hint of stubble along his jaw. Master Luke turned from the haunting image of his nephew, too guilty, too broken, while General Organa refused to look away, refused even to blink.

That was the scarred face of her child. That was the boy she loved more than life itself. How long, Rey wondered, since Leia had laid eyes on her son, the infant she once sung to sleep under the Chandrilan stars, now the monster who brutally murdered her husband?

The holovid started playing, but something was very wrong. Kylo stumbled into frame, coughing fiercely, hacking up a lung, and he didn't stop, couldn't stop, couldn't breathe, leaning heavily on the sink in his refresher.

Rey felt ill. She remembered this, lived this nightmare with him, felt everything he felt. Kylo cried out to her in these moments, their Force bond on fire, and she couldn't save him. What kind of Jedi blatantly ignores the plea of someone in need?

When the holographic Kylo spoke, he sounded like sandpaper. "Hux sealed me into my quarters and introduced an anes— anesthetic in— inhal— " More coughing, so violent Rey thought he might vomit. "Introduced an anesthetic inhalant through the vent— ventilation."

Wait, did Kylo just say— who did what? Why would the First Order betray one of their own, Snoke's precious prodigy? That made no sense. Around command central, the entire Resistance took this news like a punch to the gut, watching in abject shock, while the Knights of Ren lost their collective shit.

"Hux?" Anger rolled off Caedus in suffocating waves. "General Hux did this?"

"Of course he did," snarled Janus, deeply bitter. "Subversive, cowardly, has Hux written all over it."

"Means and motive," agreed Qalar over the comlink. "A general has enough security clearance to bypass my encryption codes, and Master Ren contends with Hux as successor to the Supreme Leader."

Aurra prepared herself for a murder most foul. "I'll flay that traitor alive!"

She charged toward the hologram, as though it might teleport her to Kylo's rescue, halfway across the quadrant and eight days back in time. Caedus caught her arm, redirecting her wrath.

Aurra shoved him hard. "I won't just kill Hux," she swore. "I'll disembowel him, slowly, painfully, over weeks and weeks." Every bit her master's apprentice. "I'll make him suffer. I'll make him pay."

Caedus pulled her in, held her close, hugged her tight again. Aurra beat his broad chest with her fists, fierce enough to bruise, until her screaming withered and rotted into hateful tears. And together, the Knights of Ren listened — useless, powerless, utterly helpless — while their master inhaled more anesthetic than oxygen.

Rey watched them, and her heart broke. These acolytes loved each other, loved Kylo. They truly did. Some things were bigger than darkness or light.

The holovid played on, their own special, unrelenting hell. And in that deep timbre, Kylo provided everything except comfort. "This isn't over. He can't kill me yet. Chapter 6, Verse 66." His legs supported him no longer, and the master of the Knights of Ren fell to his knees. "Snoke needs a living host."

And finally, finally, the pin dropped.

Rey forgot how to breathe. The clues were there, ready, waiting. It read like a tall tale from the Journal of the Whills.

From the ashes of civil war, a shadowy Supreme Leader of the First Order emerges from the Unknown Regions of the galaxy, no history, no backstory. He circles the young and impressionable Ben Solo like a vulture, pulling a Skywalker heir to the dark side. Snoke's body is half-dead, rotting beyond repair. How is he even alive at all?

Over the years, this eager young apprentice grows undeniably strong with the Force, but his master didn't anticipate an intellectual genius as well. Kylo Ren is brilliant on and off the battlefield, and reads voraciously, stumbling upon the Sith legend of Darth Plagueis — 6:66. After inadvertently bonding with a Jedi padawan, he grows even bolder, braver, grayer, more suspicious of the Supreme Leader's motive.

And the night he finally solves this puzzle, uncovers the betrayal and Snoke's master plan, a prominent First Order officer dumps anesthetic gas into Kylo's quarters. It's one of few feasible ways to immobilize a powerful Force-sensitive. And thereafter, Kylo Ren mysteriously vanishes.

But not dead. Not yet.

And Finn was right. Finn was always right: nigh impossible to smuggle the master of the Knights of Ren off a dreadnought, which meant that Kylo never left the Supremacy at all. He was still onboard, a hapless hostage hidden somewhere on a ship the size of a city. A magnificent prison, but a prison nonetheless.

_"Snoke needs a living host."_

"Oh, gods." Rey covered her mouth in horror. She should've figured it out, days ago, months ago. Just before he disappeared, Kylo asked if he deserved a fate worse than death, to have his soul purged and body stolen. Why would he even worry about essence transfer unless— "Snoke is Darth Plagueis."

Nobody spoke for what felt like hours. There was nothing to say. Everyone knew the Tragedy of Darth Plagueis the Wise, and his apprentice wouldn't survive unless he killed his master first.

Rey dared to look at Luke, at Leia, brother and sister clinging to each other as if their entire world were crumbling down. Honestly, it was. It really was.

The Sith weren't dead, and the Sith weren't gone. The Sith were real, and the Sith were here. A Sith lord led the First Order in a bid for galactic domination. Soon he would possess the Force powers of a Skywalker, and the fight would be over before it even began. Two Jedi and the threadbare Resistance couldn't hope to stop him. Not alone.

 _But we're not alone,_ remembered Rey, because Kylo Ren had six loyal acolytes who were just as scared, just as lost, just as angry, if not more so. Once again, Finn was right.

The Force bound her to Kylo for a reason. And here it was.

The holovid had less than ten seconds left. Together, the Resistance and the Knights of Ren finished watching. Because from here on out, the sliding scales of dark and light were smashed to smithereens, and 'together' was the operative word. Like it or not, they needed each other.

With his last scraps of strength, those final dregs of consciousness, the holographic Kylo moved to terminate his recording and hide the datapad, where Qalar would find it eight days later. Thumb on the switch, entering a deep and deathlike sleep, those frightened eyes belonged to Ben Solo, through and through.

"I don't know if you'll be able to find me. I don't know if you care enough to try." His head drooped, thick black curls haphazard, too weak now even to cough. "But I underestimated you before, scavenger. I won't do it again."

Rey startled. He was talking to her, his bondmate, bearing witness from afar. She remembered that night, the flashes and confusion, how Kylo Ren entrusted her with the datapad's location. All along, he intended this message for her.

"Help me, Rey Kenobi." For what might be last words, the son of Leia Organa chose wisely. "You're my only hope."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Working title for this minisode was #SaveKylo2k17. The goal here: do something a little different with the Knights of Ren. They're marketed as irredeemable darksiders, but if Kylo trained them, then maybe they're not as evil as we thought. Please discuss!
> 
> As always, I'm nervous to take my first steps into a new fandom, but holy moly did I enjoy writing this. Reylo is storytelling gold. I'm undeniably jealous that Rian Johnson got to write TLJ, because what a thrill. :)
> 
> Hux being known as 'the Starkiller' comes from this fabulous [Hamilton-inspired YouTube video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C9fDJ97TPVE).
> 
> P.S. I'm also on [Tumblr](http://praemonitor.tumblr.com), come say hello and cry about Star Wars with me.


	2. Eighth Knight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My soul ascended and my spirit was cleansed after watching TLJ. A special and heartfelt thank you to Rian Johnson, who blessed us in the year of our Reylo 2017. I have no words except bravo, sir. Truly inspired. 
> 
> And now, on with this very canon divergent show. :)
> 
> **Featured Ships of Minisode II**  
>  \- **[ Minisode Spoiler ]** light M-rated Reylo naughtiness in the TIE silencer's cockpit  
>  \- still no Gingerpilot, sorry — bear with me
> 
> **Content Warnings for Minisode II**  
>  \- graphic medical and needle-related gore  
> \- non-graphic discussion about Snoke's lifelong abuse of Ben Solo  
> 

**Minisode II:**  
**Eighth Knight**

Rey knew what she had to do.

She retrieved Kylo's crossguard saber from the council table and returned it to the Knights of Ren. No terms. No negotiation. No bribery or bartering or violence. The darksiders stared like she'd grown a few extra heads, and even their sass-mouthing droid was stunned to silence.

A wiser move would be for the Resistance to confiscate his weapon, hide it, bury it under the Craitan saltpans, maybe even destroy it and repurpose the kyber crystal, cracks and all. But in the wake of Kylo Ren's devastating testimony, with the ever looming threat of Snoke-cum-Plagueis, petty grievances must be set aside.

Parley indeed.

"We may be rebel scum," admitted Rey, "but we're not thieves, and his saber isn't ours to keep." She held out its hilt, and Aurra graciously accepted, clutching to her chest this last tangible tether to her missing master.

She didn't say thank you. She didn't need to.

Strange, how an instrument of death became their olive branch.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

And rebel scum they might be, but never did the Resistance deprive hungry bellies of a warm meal.

Solemn and stoic, the Knights of Ren ate supper in a lonely corner of the makeshift mess hall, whispering and ranting and arguing amongst themselves. Food came as an afterthought; they were too outraged and wounded and numb to enjoy it. Under pretense of supervising the darksiders, Rey shamelessly eavesdropped from two tables over.

"Hux manipulated us." Caedus stared at his half-eaten spiceloaf, hands folded, head bowed. "Snoke played us for fools."

Snoke. Darth Plagueis. Their master languished under the heel of a legendary Sith.

Dinner untouched, Janus sat on the crusty cave floor with BB-9E, legs askew, clutching his head in his palms. "They scattered us across the galaxy on a fruitless manhunt." He punched his forehead with his fist, disturbingly rough, enraged at his own stupidity. "We chased our tails for eight fucking days while Master Ren never even left the Supremacy."

BB-9E hummed in grief, hanging his head.

Aurra wouldn't eat a bite either. "I just— I just left him there." She was panicking. Rey saw it in her eyes, ripe with unshed tears. "I left Master Ren behind. And Q is still onboard too, no backup, no means of escape, surrounded by Hux and his patsies."

Horror dawned in slow motion, rampant and untamed. Those men were her family, her brothers, and Aurra abandoned them in the nexu's den. If Rey ever failed Finn or Poe so completely, guilt would devour her bit by bit until she'd nothing left to live for.

Her heart hurt for the Knights of Ren.

And futile though it was, Rey reached across the galaxy as a course of habit, flicking the unconscious Kylo behind his left ear. He didn't answer, didn't stir. Of course he didn't. The First Order pumped him full of drugs potent enough to anesthetize a bantha, and yet she wanted to punch him, shake him, scream through their bond.

Nothing, nothing, nothing. Heart rate, 42 beats per minute. Respirations, 24 breaths per minute. Eight days, no change.

The darksiders set their encrypted comlink on the table, blinking and buzzing as it came alive with Qalar's voice. "Don't blame yourself, A. None of this is your fault." He was a sliver of logic and reason as their world burned to ash. "And don't waste breath on me when our master's life is at stake."

The gears in his head cranked to full capacity, problem solving at its finest. Caedus perked a little. "Got a plan, Q?"

"I'll lay low in R&D and make up for lost time. Bug the security feeds, hack the holocams, scour the ship deck by deck." You could almost hear Qalar smiling. "Nobody ever suspects the IT guy."

Youngest among the Knights of Ren, headstrong and impulsive, but an indispensable inside man. Effectively trapped aboard their flagship, the First Order posed an imminent danger to his life, and the only thing Qalar cared about was his friends.

Reminiscent of Finn, truth be told, and everybody deserves somebody as good as Finn.

"We must encode a message to Ulic and Sedriss." That fiery spirit had drained from Janus Ren, stripped down to his barest and most basic needs: fight, survive, protect. "They're still searching Naboo, and the First Order occupies Naboo. We need to warn them." He choked on his words, swallowing hard. "They're not safe."

Caedus wrung his hands. "We should reconvene in a neutral system, regroup, find a way to extract Master Ren from the— "

"Us and what army?!" snarled Aurra, loud enough to stir salt dust on the pilings, vicious enough to draw attention from the entire mess hall.

But she made an excellent point. The Knights of Ren had nowhere to go, no connections, no soldiers or allies, one astromech and a shuttle to their name, with nobody to trust except the rebels they were meant to hate. Snoke was a Sith mastermind, an immortal titan. They were six acolytes with a fallen master.

Dreams didn't win battles, and love couldn't end wars. That's not how the Force worked. A hallowed hush blanketed the base, darksiders and Resistance guerrillas alike. Even Rey Kenobi was starting to believe their situation was hopeless.

But with confidence befitting a princess, General Organa stood from her officers' table and approached the knights. "A wise man against impossible odds once said, 'Light the place up, and make ten men feel like a hundred.'"

She sat beside Aurra, pushing her plate closer, urging her to eat. Once and always a mother. Some instincts never fade.

"We will end Snoke's reign of terror. We will save my son," promised Leia. "And we will bring your people home."

Aurra made a face, as if something smelled foul. "We?"

BB-9E beeped with disgust and alarm.

Eyeballing the dusty, dilapidated base, Caedus scowled too. "Home?"

The general ignored them. Beggars can't be choosers. "The Resistance fights for every soul in this galaxy, and Crait is a sanctuary for all."

She looked across the tables to Rey, imploring and full with trust.

"Master Kenobi." Too long since a rebellion was blessed with that name, and how appropriate for Leia Organa of Alderaan to revive it. "If the Knights of Ren smuggle you on and off the Supremacy, can your Force bond help guide them to Ben?"

Rey hestitated. Was her connection to Kylo Ren stronger than his medically induced coma? Why should she risk her life for the man who put a lightsaber through Han Solo and three centimeters from Finn's spine?

But then she remembered his bookishness, his tea, his sleep pants with the untied drawstring. His fondness and pride for his acolytes. His passion for teaching. His stubbornness, his ire, his nerdish brilliance, his childlike temper. His moles and freckles, that aquiline nose, the ears he hated so much that he grew his hair long to cover them.

None of these silly little things forgave his heinous crimes. Of course not. But what they proved to Rey, beyond doubt, beyond question, was the existence of a soul behind his faceless mask, a living breathing person, the lonely, frightened boy who was once Ben Solo, coughing and begging on his knees.

Yet another victim of a psychotic Sith lord — of Snoke, of Plagueis — the true enemy, the real monster in this mad fairytale, who rips families asunder and preys upon Force-sensitive children for sport. He stole the firstborn son of Princess Leia, tortured and abused a young man beyond sanity, spawned the demon called Kylo Ren.

Now a desperate mother had one last chance to rescue her baby, and his fate fell to a scavenger girl from Jakku. A junker, a desert rat, a nobody.

_"Help me, Rey Kenobi. You're my only hope."_

She heard herself say, "I can do it." She could. She had to.

Snoke would suffer for this, for everything, even if Rey had to drag him to hell herself.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Rey disguised herself in Aurra Ren's helmet and spare robes.

A sound, logical plan. The two women shared a similar build. Wearing her mask and vocoder, they were almost indistinguishable, and Rey would be able to sneak about the Supremacy, hidden in plain sight. But the buckles and belts and clasps were complicated, so she enlisted Rose Tico and Finn to help her dress.

At least they'd the common decency to avoid lewd comments and dominatrix jokes, unlike a certain pilot who shall remain nameless.

Finn carefully styled her long hair into braids. Aurra was a redhead; brunette flyways might escape the helm or cowl, compromising Rey. As a veteran of the First Order, he also offered some advice.

"Walk like you're on your way to murder someone, and nobody will bother you." Finn nodded solemnly. "Woe to the ‘trooper who questions a Knight of Ren."

Rose adjusted the cloak, clasped over one shoulder, draped over the other, and hid the legacy saber in a secret pocket of Rey's borrowed tunic. "You look fetching in black, Master Jedi."

May the gods bless that mechanic for all her days. Rose found optimism in everything, which was both admirable and exhausting.

Studying herself in the mirror, Rey hated this new reflection: an alter ego, the evil twin from her nightmares. Black robes and black trousers, with a hooded black cowl and black helmet and black quarterstaff, bearing an uncanny resemblance to Kylo's second in command. Every set of eyes in the Resistance stopped and stared as she strode across the hanger in such iconic regalia.

Even the Knights of Ren were unsettled. At the gangplank to their shuttle, Janus scowled a judgmental glare, and Aurra disregarded her completely. Even BB-9E did a doubletake, while Caedus blended his unease with humor. "That Jedi takes to the dark side like a fish to water."

Rey didn't dignify him with a response, and instead unmasked to say her goodbyes. The ominous hiss from that helm didn't deter General Organa, who hugged her tighter than ever.

"May the Force be with you," she whispered, kissing Rey's forehead, clasping her face. "Remind the Sith how dangerous a Kenobi can be."

Rey pressed a comlink into Leia's palm. First Order tech, secure and encrypted, a reluctant gift from the Knights of Ren and reverse engineering field day for the Resistance. "Be ready with the cavalry."

"Black Squadron's standing by."

Master Luke hugged her too, but lingered longer. "I have a bad feeling about this."

"We all do."

He squeezed Rey at the elbow. "If Ren was captured eight whole days ago, then how is he still alive? Why hasn't Snoke performed the essence transfer yet?" These observations sank in, and a nervous Luke Skywalker meant everybody else ought to shit themselves with fear. "What's he waiting for?"

Rey shook her head. She didn't know. At this point, she didn't care. "Whatever the reason," she prayed, "I hope he waits just a little longer."

Her master didn't release her arm. In fact, his grip tightened, and his voice dropped to a conspiring whisper. "If you find him too late— if the transfer is already complete, you know what must be done." Luke's eyes were somber and steadfast. "If Snoke evicts his soul, steals his body— "

Then the man inside will cease to be Ben Solo. He'll cease to be Kylo Ren. He'll cease to be anything but a virulent scourge upon the galaxy, a vessel through which evil endures. Darth Plagueis reborn, wearing the shiny new shell of her dark-eyed, curly-headed bondmate.

A worst-case scenario, where her orders went unspoken.

_If Snoke kills Kylo, then I kill Snoke,_ swore Rey, _before he kills us all._

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

She copiloted the Upsilon-class command shuttle alongside Aurra Ren, who hadn't spoken a single word since they departed from Crait.

Eight kriffing hours ago.

En route, BB-9E and the other knights reviewed the Supremacy's schematics, planning their incursion into a starship massive enough to generate her own gravitational distortions. Via those expertly encrypted comlinks — tech for which the Resistance would sell limbs and organs — they kept in near constant contact with Qalar, who fielded insider intel.

Since slicing into the dreadnought's mainframe, he already searched three-eighths of the ship. No sign of Kylo. Not yet.

The Knights of Ren also debriefed Sedriss and Ulic on this cockamamie rescue, and they decided to rendezvous onboard the flagship herself. Short absences would be less conspicuous, as would a staggered arrival. General Hux expected all the knights to return at some point, and if they followed protocol to the letter, what reason had he to suspect a coup?

"If we live through this," grumbled Sedriss over the comlink, pitched in static, "I'm retiring to the Lake Country on Naboo." He sighed dramatically. "Great hideout. Awesome food. Endless liquor. Topless beaches."

"We ought to spend more time at Master Ren's villa on Varykino," came Ulic's voice from the background. "Good for morale."

Rey forgot she was eavesdropping. Again. "His what where?"

What possible purpose would the master of the Knights of Ren have for a beach home in the Mid Rim? She snorted at the absurdity of Kylo in swimwear, lounging on a verdana, sipping Corellian brandy and schmoozing with First Order elites.

Funny story, as it turned out, which actually wasn't funny at all. Kylo's blood relation to Padmé Amidala and the noble House Naberrie served the First Order well during its hostile takeover of Naboo, leaving the locals none too pleased and with oodles of malicious motive.

Sedriss further explained. "Their disposed queen was a prime suspect in Master Ren's disappearance, given her distaste for the, uh— recent merger." Villainous euphemism for we came, we saw, we conquered. "And her former Majesty had a few colorful comments when he claimed ownership of the late Senator Amidala's estate."

Rey didn't understand. "What's so special about one dead senator?" Not to seem insensitive, but in the aftermath of the Hosnian Cataclysm, live senators were far more difficult to come by than dead ones. Priorities, people.

Aurra spoke her first words in hours. "Padmé Amidala served during the Clone Wars and is deified on Naboo. They felt her 'undeserving, greasy weasel of a grandson' had no legal right to House Naberrie's fortune." Though her eyes never left the shuttle's helm, her smile waxed sinister and vindictive. "Master Ren spent most of the inheritance on upgrades for his TIE silencer, but he refuses to liquidate Villa Varykino itself."

Rey quirked her head. "Why not?"

"He likes reading by the water."

And Rey most certainly did not envision the barefoot Ben Solo in gray slacks rolled to his knees, sprawled on a quiet, sandy lakeside with that curious nose buried in a book. Sunlight tangled in his raven hair, and his white linen shirt hung half buttoned. He was alone and content and at peace for the first time in gods knew how long.

That man might be a pain in the ass, but Force alive, he was a beautiful one.

Rey spooked from her reverie. She ought not think like that. Childish, shallow, stupidly naïve. Even when Kylo Ren was Ben Solo, a vein of darkness permeated his soul. Nobody was perfectly luminous or flawlessly transparent. Not even a Kenobi, and Rey understood that now. Better than most, actually.

She rejoined Aurra on the bridge, and they sat in awkward silence for at least ten minutes before Rey dared to speak. "I've never been to Naboo, or Corellia, or Chandrila, or Coruscant. I've never been to a lot of places." Nothing, no reaction, not even a huff or nod. Hoping to kill her with kindness, Rey tried again. "Where are you from?"

Ever suspicious, Aurra snapped. "Why d'you care?"

Rey prickled too. "I don't."

She crossed her arms, quietly offended, and this impasse dragged on and on until Aurra ultimately gave in. "Mandalore," muttered the darksider, though Rey had all but forgotten her original inquiry. "I was born on Mandalore, after its duchy fell to the First Order, before our exiled duke drowned himself in narcolethe."

Gloomy, but good enough. Baby steps. If they ever hoped to defeat the Sith together, might as well start with a civilized conversation.

And imagine Rey's surprise when Aurra reciprocated with a nosy question of her own. "How are you related to Obi-Wan Kenobi?" The darksider chuckled in bitter amusement, and her palm rested absently on the hilt of Kylo's lightsaber, clipped to her belt. "I thought Jedi were supposed to keep it in their pants."

"Paternal grandfather. Beyond that, no clue." Rey shrugged. Genetic fingerprints solved many mysteries, but not all. Rapport flowing easier now, her curiosity grew all-consuming until Rey finally blurted, "What's your real name? From... before" She gestured at their matching black cowls and black boots and black everything.

Aurra Ren took several long seconds to decide if she was willing to divulge such sensitive information. Honestly, though, what harm could it do now? "I was called Bo." She spat it like a slur, unable to look Rey in the eye. "Bo Kryze. After my grandmother."

Rey knew nothing about Clan Kryze of Mandalore. Were they commoners, noblemen, somewhere between? Was Bo Kryze the last of her family, just like Rey Kenobi?

Unsure what else to say, she offered something deeply personal in return. "I'm from Jakku."

Aurra rolled her eyes. "Everyone knows you come from the junkyard."

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Their shuttle docked in the Supremacy's massive main hanger, setting down alongside a few dozen TIE fighters and one distinct TIE silencer.

Rey had seen that prototype in action only once, spiraling and spinning in a volley of lasers, Kylo at the helm. A terrifying starfighter, long and sleek and barbed, built for speed, power, and sheer intimidation. During the Battle of Crait, she took down five X-wings in a single run, and the First Order would soon replace all standard TIEs with this new model.

Rey hated the silencer almost as much as she wanted to fly her.

While inbound, she donned her disguise again, a borrowed helmet and cloak and quarterstaff. The real Aurra Ren hid in their cargo hold, comlink in one hand, crossguard saber in the other.

"If you fuck up," warned the darksider, bracing for the worst, "we're all dead."

BB-9E screeched in alarm. Caedus shushed him. "If you're so worried, then stay on the shuttle and stand guard."

"But act natural." Janus disabled the safeties on his dual blasters. Just in case. "Look busy."

The droid blooped and glowered, rolling off, parking himself determinedly atop the cargo hatch.

And with Caedus on her left, Janus on her right, Rey boldly descended the gangplank, outward confidence befitting a Knight of Ren: mask on, hood up, long strides, billowing robes, walk like you're on your way to murder someone. But inside she was screaming, because a hostile entourage awaited them in the hanger.

Legions of stormtroopers, two black-cowled men who must be Ulic and Sedriss, and even General Hux himself.

The man they call the Starkiller was severe and stilted and cold as ice. Uniform impeccable, not a single red hair out of place. "Lady Aurra. What news from Mustafar?" Feet apart, hands behind his back, face contorted in a perpetual sneer. "Any sign of Ren?"

Treacherous snake. Hux knew damn well that Kylo wasn't on Mustafar, because Kylo was here, captive on the flagship. Rey could feel it. Their Force bond hummed with proximity, vague but stalwart, a deep-rooted anchor. Not since Starkiller Base had she and Kylo been so physically close.

But still not enough to pinpoint his location onboard a 60-kilometer dreadnought. Rey bit her tongue, bided her time, played her part. In these trappings, in this place, she became Aurra Ren, second in command of the Knights of Ren.

_Don't blow your cover, Kenobi._

"No," came her curt reply, distorted through the vocoder. How menacing. Rey hated it. "Tomorrow we further expand the search. Sedriss?" she barked, and the taller of the two black-cowled men jumped to attention. "Our deflector array sustained thermal damage from the Mustafarian lava fields. Assist BB-9E with repairs, and make it quick."

He bowed with diffidence and boarded the shuttle. Its deflector was perfectly functional, but exit strategy 101: ace pilot, meet getaway vehicle. In the First Order, everybody was deceiving somebody, and the Knights of Ren were no exception.

Step by treasonous step, they hatched their master's daring rescue.

So far, so good.

Ulic also stepped forward, precisely as planned. "Qalar requests an immediate audience in R&D. No breakthroughs yet, but forensic analysis of Master Ren's quarters is pending."

True enough to convince Hux, false enough to cover their tracks. Qalar was pivotal to the success of this mission, their golden ticket through the Supremacy's deadlocked security. He wrote the bio-hexacrypt ciphers. He could just as easily unwrite them.

And if General Hux suspected betrayal or duplicity, he didn't show it. Granted, his expression never much changed from sour and fanatical. "We cannot afford to waste resources on a wild goose chase. Your personal interests mustn't interfere with service to the Supreme Leader." Hux was far too flippant when insisting, "We should cease investigation into Ren's disappearance and consider the possibility that he's already dead."

_You wish. Liar._ Rey shoved past him, though the real Aurra probably would've thrown a punch, and three other darksiders fell into step behind her. First Order officers had no true authority over the Knights of Ren. A rude reminder for Hux.

"Try not to sound so pleased at the prospect, general." Whether this comeback reflected more upon Rey Kenobi or Aurra Ren was open for debate. Probably a bit of both. "Happiness is a bad look on you."

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Rose Tico would have a field day in the Supremacy's research and development division.

While the Resistance scraped the bottom of a barrel for outdated radar and secondhand starfighters, First Order funding poured from old Imperial sympathizers and a never-ending slew of conquered worlds. Only the best in weaponry, spacecrafts, and all terrain transports for Sienar-Jaemus and KDY's richest customer, always demanding guns bigger, armor thicker, engines faster.

The Knights of Ren steered Rey through workshops and shipyards and laboratories, jam-packed with overtaxed mechanics. General Organa and her officers would sell their souls for such advanced technology: top-notch annihilation reactors, reinforced durasteel hull plating, brand new megablasters and incinerators.

The Resistance eked out victories with antiquated ships and antediluvian shields. If properly equipped, imagine what they could achieve?

Rey grinned inside her borrowed helmet, commandeering a Star Destroyer in her daydream. Finn as her gunner. Poe Dameron at the helm. They'd level the playing field and end the war in five minutes.

"But bigger isn't always better," would be Poe's cheeky critique. "She doesn't corner worth a damn!"

Rey and the darksiders soon arrived at Qalar Ren's workshop, a small space with wall-to-wall monitors, strewn with disorderly crates and datapads. The door slammed shut behind them and sealed with a foreboding thud.

"Take off that mask," came a male voice, hidden behind the nearest console. "You don't need it here. I sliced the security feeds. Big Brother's not watching my lab." A blonde boy — fifteen, maybe sixteen — disentangled himself from a web of wires and wiped a greasy Harris wrench on his pants.

Her helmet released with a familiar hiss, set aside with her cloak. "Rey Kenobi." She extended her gloved hand.

Qalar didn't shake it, sizing her up instead: an undercover Jedi, all in black, with mussed braids and hat head and sweat on her brow. Those helms didn't breathe, and humidity collected in the vocoder.

"You're shorter than I expected. And prettier," was his ultimate conclusion, if a bit snide. The little punk looked to his comrades. "Master Ren didn't tell us she was pretty."

"He didn't tell us a lot of things," mumbled Janus.

True, though Rey was rather tight-lipped about the Force bond too. And to be fair, Kylo discovered the truth about Snoke-cum-Plagueis mere hours before his abduction. No time to rally the troops. No time to launch a counteroffensive. The less his friends knew, the safer they were.

Kylo was first and foremost the master of the Knights of Ren, and a true master protects his acolytes.

Qalar cleared a stack of datapads off his chair, onto the floor, then sat at his console, typing furiously. "Status update." His voice waxed robotic as a droid. "I searched this ship top to bottom. Hacked every holocam, bugged every comlink, and I still can't locate Master Ren."

His fingers shook over the keyboard. Only then Rey saw the dark circles under his eyes and an assorted collection of caf mugs on his desk.

Caedus noticed too. "You okay?" He swiveled Qalar's chair, encouraging him to talk to a person instead of a computer. "How long you been cooped in R&D? Have you been eating?" Caedus Ren, the overbearing mother.

"We talked about this, Q." Ulic crossed his arms, peeved. "Guilt is a useless emotion. What happened to Master Ren wasn't your fault."

Qalar finally snapped, lashing out. "Fuck guilt. Now I'm just mad." He spun back around, busying himself at the console again. His rage was palpable, stifling as smog. "General Hux abused his clearance, overrode my surveillance protocols to abduct Master Ren in secret, and then blamed me. Said it was my error, a flaw in my algorithms— "

"He lied," piped Rey, and the young knight glanced over his shoulder. Gods, he was so very young, too young for politics and intrigue and war. "Your bio-hexacrypt ciphers are the bane of Resistance intelligence. They admire you almost as much as they hate you."

"Good, because I'm about to become their new best friend." Qalar cracked his knuckles. "When the First Order learns I've defected, my encryptions will be scrapped and rewritten. No sense stealing the key before they change the locks, so I installed a backdoor instead."

He inserted a code cylinder into the console, which beeped once. Download complete.

When the cylinder ejected, Qalar waved it in Rey's face. "Look here, scavenger. This little beauty serves the Supremacy's mainframe on a silver platter. Real time troop movements, base blueprints, armament specs, classified comms, holocams, the whole shebang." He pocketed the device. "You find my master, and get me and mine off this ship alive, it's yours. All of it."

Jackpot of all jackpots. This could turn the tide of the war, and Resistance intelligence would cream themselves.

Rey suppressed a smile. "Don't piss off the IT guy, huh?"

Despite himself, Qalar Ren smiled too.

And now to work. A padawan learner and the Knights of Ren gathered around one main monitor, rehashing their plan. Only together would they outsmart Darth Plagueis and live to tell the tale. Light and dark. Day and night. History in the making.

_"The difference, they say, is only made right by the resolving of gray through refined Jedi sight."_

Rey reasoned aloud. "I sense Kylo, somewhere on this ship, but Qalar sliced into the security footage and can't find him." She asked the next logical question. "Which sections of a Star Destroyer are _not_ monitored with holocams or audio?"

"Snoke's throne room," suggested Caedus.

"Senior officers' quarters," added Ulic.

Janus failed to maintain a straight face. "Refreshers."

Qalar humored him. "I already searched Master Ren's bathroom. He's not in there."

"I should hope not. It's been eight days." Rey paused. The joke told itself. "Then again, he does spend an awful lot of time on his hair."

Ulic barked more than laughed, while Qalar grinned a maniacal grin. "I'm telling Master Ren you said that."

Rey shrugged, indifferent. "He's not my master."

"Not yet," muttered Janus under his breath.

Caedus rolled his eyes. "Behave, children." He punched some buttons on the keyboard, and a bluish hologram of the First Order flagship materialized midair. "Cargo decks also have minimal surveillance, especially on a ship this large. We could search on foot." The holoimage zoomed on an area larger than most Mid Rim cities.

"That'll take weeks. Those decks are a maze." Janus rounded upon Rey. "Use your Force bond. Narrow the radius."

"That's not how the Force works, and you know it." With her bondmate drugged off his rocker, unable to call or summon or guide her, Rey felt nothing more than Kylo's physical presence. Heart rate, 42 beats per minute. Respirations, 24 breaths per minute. As usual. "He's definitely alive, and he's definitely here," she reaffirmed. "I just don't know where."

Ulic stepped forward, entering new commands into the console. The hologram zoomed out again, now overlaid with countless red dots. "Every life sign on the Supremacy, more than two million, pinpointed within 100 meters via their cardiac electrical impulses. Useful in medical emergencies or mass evacuations, but no way to track specific individuals." He looked to Qalar. "Unless you work some computer magic."

An idea struck Rey. "It locates people by heartbeat?" She gripped Qalar's shoulder. "Can you filter for life signs with a sleeping human heart rate?"

He could indeed. Teamwork at its finest. Millions of red dots reduced to a few thousand, representing those crewmen with overnight shifts who slept during the day. Obviously, these concentrated on the upper decks, in the stormtrooper barracks and officers' quarters, along with a few snoozing patients in medbay.

But there was a single, glaring outlier: one bright red dot, stationary in the cargo hold.

"Unsanctioned nap time on Deck 66." Qalar zeroed in. "Heart rate fixed at... 42 beats per minute."

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

They split up to search the sprawling cargo deck. A laborious challenge, for sure, and time was of the essence.

Rey slunk through a labyrinth of quiet corridors, guided by the Force. It urged her through switchbacks and obstacles, tugging her along empty halls and flickering stairwells. She burned a few locked doors with her lightsaber. When a Praetorian marched past, she hid inside a utility closet. Through the shadows, his armor was a shock of crimson red.

Why might the Supreme Leader's personal guard patrol the bowels of a dreadnought?

Maybe if Snoke were hiding something — someone — he didn't want found.

And in this creepy, godsforsaken dungeon, perhaps her imagination was playing tricks. Rey swore she heard a child's voice, a little boy crying, lost somewhere in the dark.

"Is it you?" His soft sniffles echoed off the walls. "It is. It _is_ you."

Rey turned a corner and saw bright light at the end of a long tunnel. Without thinking, she forged onward and emerged into a domed room, alive with pressure gauges and monitors and beeping pumps. Around its periphery were shelves upon shelves of vials and fluid bags, of surgical instruments and scalpel blades and metallic retractors. The air was dry, and it smelled sterile, like bleach and ammonia.

This felt nothing like Dr. Kalonia's warm, welcoming medbay. Rey spent enough time at Finn's bedside to know, as only a worried friend could, that this wasn't a place of peace or healing. This wasn't medicine. This wasn't science.

This was hell. Less a laboratory, more a torture chamber.

And at its center, supine on a cold steel table, was the unconscious Kylo Ren.

Long hair matted, cheeks sallow, he looked like absolute shit. Sporting a week's worth of overgrown stubble and stinking like a gundark, Kylo wore the same filthy sleep clothes from the night he disappeared. Needles and catheters pierced every vein, hooked to drip lines and syringes and an intricate web of life support. A respirator fitted over his nose and mouth, and he was barefoot, all four limbs cuffed to the table.

And buried into his scalp were wires, dozens of them, skin bloodied and bruised at their insertion. They coursed toward a towering, cylindrical machine with a control panel, three bubbling columns of fluid, and an especially ominous red lever, currently fixed in the 'off' position.

Aurebesh script blinked on his monitors, vital signs low but stable. Heart rate, 42 beats per minute. Respirations, 24 breaths per minute.

Rey whipped out her comlink. "Kenobi to Knights of Ren.” She broadened the bio-hexacrypt frequency. "Kenobi to Organa."

Crackling but audible, Qalar responded promptly. "Got something, scavenger?"

Aurra answered from her hideaway in the shuttle's cargo hold. "Unless it's good news," she whispered, "keep it to yourself."

Static, static, more static, finally overlaid by the most hopeful voice in the galaxy. "My son, Rey?" Leia choked. "Is he— "

"I found him." In that moment, Rey swore she felt the Force itself rejoice, light and dark sides alike. "Repeat, I found him."

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

These medical contraptions were dizzyingly complex. For fear of doing more harm than good, Rey didn't dare touch anything.

Less than a minute after she broadcast her coordinates, Ulic Ren skidded into the laboratory, agape and aghast. "What's his status?" The hollow face and sunken eyes of his half-dead master answered that, better than Rey ever could. "Oh, fucking hell."

An assassin by trade, well versed in the deadliest poisons in the galaxy, Ulic beelined for those offending syringes. Once a killer, now a healer. How the tables turn.

Dr. Kalonia trained all Resistance fighters in basic first aid, so Rey recognized a few common drugs: imobilin the paralytic, plethyl nitrate the hypotensive, illicit kryotin, kouhunin the neurotoxin, myocaine the muscle relaxant, xyathone the anesthetic inhalant. Quite a cocktail.

Snoke needed Kylo good and pliant and helpless for the essence transfer. Rey had never experienced hatred so primal.

"These narcotics are potent enough to immobilize a rathtar." Ulic shut down the vaporizer and flushed the respirator with oxygen, then clamped off each fluid pump one by one. He also sent Rey to a nearby pharmacy shelf, crammed with colorful vials. "Find the quickwake. One liter bags, white liquid, black and red label— "

"Got it."

Ulic inverted the fluids, punctured them with a drip set, and started a bolus through the catheter in Kylo's right arm. "Universal antidote. Push it fast. Hold the bag above your head and squeeze hard." Rey obeyed, while Ulic prepped a second dose of quickwake and repeated this entire process through the catheter in Kylo's left arm too.

They stood on either side of the table, slamming intravenous antidote, when shouts and snarls erupted from the corridor. Blasters discharged, and Qalar Ren materialized in the doorway, nose broken, knuckles bleeding, vibro-axe in hand. "Praetorians incoming!"

Ulic drew his scythe, and Rey took over both bags of quickwake. "I'll stay and protect Kylo," she swore. "Seal the lab behind you."

With a hiss and click, she was alone again, surrounded by alchemical machines and stark white walls and an unconscious, unkempt darksider in grungy pajamas. Sickening sounds of battle raged beyond the door, the hum of energy weapons and bodies crunching against bulkheads. Minutes ticked by like hours.

Dauntless, determined, Rey shoveled antidote into Kylo's bloodstream. Exactly how quick was quickwake?

Turns out, pretty damn quick.

For the first time in over a week, their Force bond quivered. Rey felt it like a kick to the head, like sunshine piercing through storm clouds, clawing and grappling against a muted haze. His heart rate and respirations accelerated. And when he finally woke, dull and sluggish, Kylo spoke before he ever opened his eyes.

"Scavenger." He sensed her presence immediately. "You— you're here?"

He was surprised, reaching out with the Force, brushing behind her left ear, yet unconvinced she was real. Perhaps another of Snoke's mind tricks, another means of abusive control, his unending telepathic torture, the cruelest stroke yet: to dangle hope of rescue, only to yank it away...

"Of course I'm here. When somebody asks for help, I answer." Rey removed his respirator and wanted nothing more than to rip out those catheters too. But antidote flowed through them now. Patience, serenity, peace. Give the medicine time to work. "Your knights risked their lives to smuggle me onboard."

Nevertheless, he marveled. "You came to get me." Disbelief seeped into their bond. "You got my message, and— you came?"

This was a man accustomed to being forgotten, being abandoned, being a lost cause. _"I don't know if you'll be able to find me. I don't know if you care enough to try."_ All those nights ago, floundering in anesthetic gas, Kylo Ren thought for sure that was the end, that he'd die alone, in the most horrendous way imaginable, utterly certain that nobody cared.

Not even his acolytes. Not even his bondmate.

Think again. On all accounts.

Outside that laboratory, the Knights of Ren fought for him. And inside, so did Rey.

"I already told you, laser brain." She tossed aside those spent bags of quickwake, and with her saber severed the shackles about his wrists and ankles. But Kylo was still too sedate to stand. "Nobody deserves to die like this. Not even you."

His voice cracked, unused for eight days. "Am I— am I dreaming?" He saddened at the prospect.

"No. You're not dreaming." Rey wished this were a nightmare, but it was terribly and dangerously real.

And in other news, the most fearsome Force-sensitive in the galaxy was high as a kriffing kite. "I must be dead then."

"Not quite."

"But it's so dark." Except it wasn't. The laboratory was brightly lit, if clinical and cold. Kylo moved his arm, weighed with wires and drip lines, groping blindly. "I can't— I can't see." His empty eyes searched, red and watery, and his pupils were blown wide enough to turn their brown to black. "Why can't I see?"

"Withdrawal." Rey could only assume. Hopefully his vision would return in time. "You've been doped off your ass for over a week."

When his mind finally accepted that this was really happening, that she wasn't a figment of his imagination, he withered from wonderment into unadulterated horror. “Forgive me, Rey,” were his next words, and something she never thought to hear from Kylo Ren. "Please forgive me. I was wrong. I didn't know." He was shaking his head now, weak but incessant. "I swear I didn't know."

Sincerity flooded their bond. If nonsensical, Kylo meant it with all his heart, and a knot formed in Rey's throat. Violently protective, fiercely possessive, exceptionally un-Jedi. Poets wrote sonnets about feelings like this. Wars were declared over less. She'd never known its equal.

_What the fuck is wrong with me?_

Pulse thundering, Rey held his face in her hands. "Didn't know what, Ben?"

A single tear rolled down his cheek. "Snoke isn't after me. I'm not the host." Kylo was defeated, devastated. "I'm the bait."

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Rey had never been hit with Force lightning before.

It felt like a thousand knives flaying her every nerve. It felt like immolation, like crucification. It felt like death. In the span of an instant, Snoke emerged from a secret entrance to the laboratory and chucked her into a shelf, shattering glass vials and beakers and test tubes. She reeled in shock as he lumbered closer, unnaturally tall and looming with his distorted face and fetid breath.

And inside was the immortal soul of Darth Plagueis, content no longer to live as a rotting corpse.

Rey found her footing and reignited her saber. "One more step, and I gut you." Now she knew why Kylo was still alive, eight days after his capture. Master Luke was right. Snoke had been waiting for something — or rather, someone.

He set a trap for Rey Kenobi, and she fell for it. Hook, line, sinker, lured by the irresistible bait of her bondmate in need. Over his countless lifetimes, Plagueis fooled many a wiser person, and no one foresaw this part of the ruse. Not the Knights of Ren, not Leia or Luke, not even Kylo Ren himself.

"Welcome back to the Supremacy, child." Snoke spread his arms wide. "So glad you could join us again."

"You're supposed to be dead." Rey picked through fallen shelves and fractured glass. "Darth Sidious killed you in your sleep."

The Sith lord gestured to a fissure down his face, the sizable chunk torn from his cheek, the blunt-force indent in his skull, those savage holes gouged through his throat. "My last apprentice was duplicitous and brutal, but then I taught Sheev everything he knew. My mistake."

Approaching the steel table, Snoke — no, Plagueis, always Plagueis — extended one talon-like finger and stroked Kylo's dark stubble, a deeply disturbing caress. Still recumbent, too weak to resist, presumably blind, Kylo shivered and flinched away.

Rey saw red. _Don't fucking touch him, you monster._

Snoke lectured on. "I was less forthcoming with my next acolyte, whose mind I poisoned before he drew first breath." He circled his hapless victim like a predator. "Groomed into the perfect host, or so I thought: someone broken, someone complaisant, someone alone and with nothing to live for. A boy without hope, whose family abandoned him to darkness long before he abandoned himself."

Darth Plagueis had ingrained into Ben Solo's head from the very beginning, like a vile parasite, whispering Sith propaganda in his ear.

That poor man never stood a chance, never chose between light and dark. His path was unfairly chosen for him.

Rey brandished her lightsaber, while the Knights of Ren valiantly defended the door. "He's not broken. There's always hope. And Ben Solo isn't alone anymore."

Snoke unleashed another barrage of Force lightning, but Rey deflected with her blade. "A few reasons, among many, why he's no longer an ideal host." The Sith lord loomed like a wraith, electricity crackling at his fingertips. She couldn't evade forever. "But how fortuitous that he became my stepping stone to the godlike gifts of a Kenobi, hidden inside a girl worth less than the narcolethe her father sold her for!"

Kylo was still out of commission, but just strong enough to rise onto an elbow. He bent his fingers, torqued his free arm — and with the Force, with his every ounce of willpower, hurled Snoke clear across the room, bashing him headlong into that levered machine.

Solid aim for somebody who supposedly couldn't see. Rey blinked in surprise. "I thought you were blind!"

That smile belonged to Ben Solo, and his father before him. "I can see a lot better now."

But when Snoke stood again, dragging himself up by wires and machinations, his lightning electrocuted Kylo with twice the brutality.

Through their bond, Rey shared his agony, and fury engulfed her — ardent, immersive, pure, unbridled. She reached out with the Force, and sharp fragments of glass levitated from the floor, hovering midair before she harpooned them straight into Snoke's eyes. He deflected most, but not all, staggering backward, clutching his bloody face, slamming into cables and fluid lines.

His lightning withered into harmless sparks.

"The next time you raise a hand to Ben Solo," promised Rey, dark and vicious, "will be the last time you have hands."

Snoke couldn't defeat Rey and Kylo Ren together, not in such a sickly old body, not when they wielded darkness and light in perfect synchrony. Running short of options, he rounded upon that unholy machine and grabbed its red lever, his finale ultimo. Those wires were still attached to Kylo, buried in his temples, primed for essence transfer.

"Next time we see each other," hissed the intrepid soul of Darth Plagueis, baiting Rey again, "I will _be_ Ben Solo. Only a detour upon the path to possessing you, for Skywalkers herald the death of Kenobis." That crooked smile was evil incarnate. "May we meet again in another life."

She extended her arm, palm out. “Pull that lever,” said a voice so sinister that Rey didn’t recognize herself, "and you'll die screaming."

Snoke pulled the lever. And he died screaming.

But that's the thing about Sith lords. They never stay dead for very long.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Rey already knew she could explode stuff with her mind. Old news.

What she didn't know was that she could generate Force lightning, much less fricassee a Sith with it. This power unleashed from the dark place deep inside her heart, filled with bitter resentment for the family that forsook her. Rage and fear coalesced into something tangible, something raw, hellbent to save Ben Solo at any cost.

Her fingers tingled with purplish sparks. Her hair clung with static. Rey felt paradoxically cold, inside and out. She wanted Snoke dead. He deserved to burn. And she made it so, gave no quarter, showed no mercy, unrepentant and unrelenting until the Supreme Leader of the First Order was a crispy, lifeless lump.

That was... new. And unexpected. And very un-Jedi.

She killed someone. With Force lightning. Not even Master Luke had a scowl disapproving enough for this.

But Luke wasn't here.

Kylo Ren lay unnervingly limp on the table, while what little remained of Snoke — no, no, Plagueis — crumpled nearby, charred and smoky and unmoving. Electricity sparked through the laboratory, along broken wires and fried monitors, up and down the walls of the Supremacy herself. That infernal machine whirred loudly, its probes and patches still burrowed into Kylo.

The lever was flipped on.

Terror flooded her. Rey seized the machine with the Force, clenched and twisted her hand, ripped out its gizzard, destroyed it for good.

But was she too late? Was the essence transfer complete?

She snuffed her saber and sprinted to Kylo, at long last tearing him free of drip lines and needles and wires. His body was very much alive. As always, she could feel the heartbeats, the respirations, but no telling if the soul inside was Kylo Ren or Darth Plagueis.

Rey smacked his face, shook his shoulders, swept black hair from his eyes, desperate for any sign that Kylo was still Kylo. “Wake up, asshat!”

His death warrant rang in her ears, an endless nightmare on repeat. If Snoke succeeded, if he stole the shell that was once Kylo Ren, she'd no choice but to bury her blade through his heart. Rey’s life depended on it. The Resistance depended on it. The galaxy depended on it.

She wasn't sure she could do it.

"I'm not ready to kill you," confessed Rey to Kylo. "We're not done yet."

With a deep, calming breath, she centered herself and split open their bond. She bared her whole soul, her whole being. She'd found him so many times before, kiloparsecs and shields and comas be damned. She could find him again.

She could. She had to.

<Prove you're still you, Ben Solo.> Without shame, without regret, Rey let longing pour from her mind into his. <Please still be you.>

He stirred. His thumb twitched, then his chapped lips, then his eyelids.

She rested a hand on the hilt of her lightsaber, praying for the best, prepared for the worst. "The Force will be with you," whispered Rey Kenobi, in what might be his eulogy. "Always."

And then she felt something, weak, wavering, but no other word for it: a telltale telepathic flick behind her left ear.

Their calling card, their secret handshake, impossible to fake. <Proof enough, scavenger?>

In retrospect, she should've composed herself before Caedus Ren bashed down the door to the laboratory, and before Ulic and Qalar and Janus barreled along behind him, soaked in the guts and gore of the Praetorian guards. She should've issued orders, buried her feelings, kept her cool, been a Jedi about the whole thing.

Instead, the darksiders found Rey sobbing into their master's chest, crying her eyes out, hysterical with relief.

She pressed a wet, snotty kiss to his forehead, caked in sweat and blood. Forget shyness, hang embarrassment. Darkness and light could go fuck themselves too. This was balance. This was unity. This was how the Force worked.

And the man on that table was not and never would be a Sith.

She could _feel_ it.

Rey surrendered. "Never thought I'd say this, Kylo Ren." Still flat on his back, he blinked slowly, thoroughly confused. "I am so kriffing happy to see you."

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

On the way out, they ran into General Hux.

Doublechecking on the most valuable prisoner in the galaxy, he arrived to a jailbreak in progress. His gaze fixed first upon the dead Praetorians in the hallway, then that decimated machine with its tangled wires, and finally on a half-conscious Kylo, off the steel table only because his knights held him upright.

And when Hux noticed the deep fried corpse of Supreme Leader Snoke, ravaged at the feet of a Jakku scavenger, he froze in his tracks, wordless and slack-jawed. The grisly scene took a few solid seconds to process.

What he finally sputtered was, "You— you're not Aurra Ren."

"Rey Kenobi." She reignited her saber, proud blue against the midnight black of her borrowed robes. "Pleasure to meet you, general."

Through their bond, she felt Kylo perk with interest, thoughts muddy but cohesive. He squinted through the whitewash, still seeing double. But even with his legs jelly, his vision spotty, Kylo recognized the man with slick red hair and remembered damn well who doused him in anesthetic inhalant.

Leaning heavily on his acolytes, the master of the Knights of Ren raised his hand, curled his fingers, and started Force choking the life out of Hux.

"Don't!" cried Rey. Too much bloodshed already, and still more to come. A Jedi finds no joy in killing, but these darksiders were no Jedi. She yanked at Kylo, beat her fists into his shoulder, but he hardly felt it. That man was built like a brick wall. "Enough, Ben, please stop!"

That name grabbed his attention. Kylo loosened the extrasensory chokehold, and Hux crumpled to the floor, gulping for air.

Rey approached the fallen general, while Hux scrambled to his knees, reaching for his blaster. "I don't want to hurt you," she promised, deactivating her saber, passing her hand in front his face. Force persuasion, a Kenobi specialty. "And you will drop your weapon."

The mind trick crashed over him like a riptide, drawing him under, but the man they call the Starkiller was far from weak-willed. Rey felt him resist, felt him tighten his grip on the trigger, and he felt her nudging about in his brain. A telepathic tug of war.

And like a holofilm, his memories unfurled.

Rey caught the briefest glimpse of a sad child on Arkanis, a gangly redhead boy, the illegitimate consequence of one drunken night between an Imperial commandant and a kitchen wench. Thirty years ago, his homeworld suffered a months-long New Republic siege, and his belly growled with starvation. His mother was destitute but gentle, killed in a bombing. His father was callous and cruel, because a bastard son brought shame upon his house.

Armitage Hux hated his mother for dying. He hated the Republic for killing her. And he hated his father for raising him to hate himself.

"Get out of my head," spat Hux, boiling with rage. "Jedi filth."

But she found the chink in his armor, so Rey exploited it. "You're not alone. My father didn't want me either. Sold me for drinking money on Jakku." Such common ground jarred the general, just enough for Rey to lasso his mind with the Force, to incept an insurgent idea. "We are stronger than our fathers. We'll make history while they rot in an unmarked grave."

Kenobis possess an inborn gift for Force persuasion. A notorious and controversial technique, not quite dark, not quite light, though painless if executed properly. Rey pushed harder. Firm, unrelenting, nonviolent.

"War has no winners, only survivors." She swept her hand through the air again. "You _will_ drop your weapon."

Something gave.

Still kneeling, Hux went glassy. "War has no winners, only survivors," came his robotic recitation. "I will drop my weapon." His blaster clunked to the ground.

Rey crouched to his level. Her greatest weakness was a compulsion to save everyone, even those who'd rather not be saved. That's what dragged her into this mess in the first place. "Proceed with caution, general. Rethink your life. The monster in there, the Supreme Leader you worship— " She pointed into that hellish laboratory, to Snoke's charbroiled body on the floor. "Sith hold nothing sacred and repay loyalty with murder. He already treats you like shit, and after you serve his purpose, Snoke will burn the First Order down."

"Snoke's dead," came the baffled voice of Caedus Ren. "You cut the head off the snake. The war's over."

Rey disagreed. "Every generation thinks the war's over. Every generation thinks it killed Darth Plagueis for good." She stood, leaving General Hux slumped on his knees, reeling from her influence. "I won't be the next fool who believes it."

And with that, they fled.

Through shadowy corridors and deserted rooms, Caedus and Janus led the way, mace and blasters drawn, while a barefoot, half-drugged Kylo limped along with support from Ulic and Qalar. Rey defended their back and flank, until the entire company squeezed into a turbolift.

Next stop, the Supremacy's main hanger.

In the fleeting lull, Qalar tugged her sleeve like an inquisitive child. "What you did to Hux— " That quirky, confident slicer suddenly looked his age, a wide-eyed boy barely into manhood. "I've never seen a Jedi mind trick before."

"Force persuasion," corrected Janus, who simmered with mistrust. "If she liked, Kenobi could convince us all to jump out an airlock."

Ulic tended diligently to his master, who stumbled and yawed and struggled find footing. "Hux deserves worse than an open airlock."

Rey forgave their trepidation, their misgivings, their apparent lack of gratitude. The darksiders overflowed with wrath and fear, their Force signatures an emotional vortex, outraged at Kylo's grimy sleep clothes and blood-crusted beard and ruptured veins, apprehensive of the loose cannon called Rey Kenobi, certain any given breath might be their last.

As the turbolift zipped along, their master roused, slowly but surely, that double dose of quickwake working its magic. And when Kylo finally lifted his head, standing precariously on his own, he fixated upon Rey and stared like he'd never seen her before.

"Scavenger." Kylo raked her with those dark eyes, and she felt an absurd impulse to cover herself. "You look like a Knight of Ren."

What was that drug-addled nerfherder on about? Oh, right, _right._ Kylo was functionally blind upon waking and hadn't yet seen her darksider disguise: black tunic, black trousers, black quarterstaff, black cowl, black boots. Minor details, now their cover was blown, and Rey had long since abandoned the cloak and confining helm in R &D.

Thank the gods Kylo didn't hear her use the vocoder. She'd never live that down.

Rey shot him a look. "Special circumstances. Don't get attached."

A beat, then another, before Kylo Ren muttered, "Pity. It suits you."

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

They burst into the main hanger amid blaster bolts and bedlam.

Jig was up. Hux must've shirked her Force persuasion and sounded the alarm, because the Knights of Ren now topped his kill list. Traitors, deserters, rebel scum.

Stormtroopers beset the Upsilon-class command shuttle, while her laser cannons blew holes through people and cargo and walls. Onboard were Aurra and Sedriss and BB-9E, firing at will, bravely holding ground, because that ship was their only hope for escape.

If she lost engines, good luck smuggling eight fugitives off a dreadnought in anything less than eight body bags.

"Oi, assholes!" Broad as an AT-AT, Caedus barreled into the fray, his mace scattering soldiers like claqballs.

Rey followed with her saber, and Janus with his blasters, cutting down soldier after soldier. She tried not to think about the people condemned inside that white armor. Just like Finn, once upon a time. Were there more Finns in the First Order, other conflicted stormtroopers who weren't lucky enough to meet Poe Dameron and joyride to freedom?

Now they'd never know, not when her blade ran through one, then another, then another. Monster is as monster does.

Kylo was fully ambulatory now, if unsteady, and his pupils still dilated from drugs. Ulic and Qalar braced their master under his armpits, but an army yet stood between them and the shuttle. As her gangplank lowered, those cannons showered the hanger in a fiery maelstrom, and Aurra herself finally charged into battle.

For the first time in what felt like forever, she laid eyes on her missing master: alive, conscious, dressed in dirty sleep clothes, battered and bruised, but more or less in one piece. Rampant relief flooded her face, warm enough to melt the icecaps of Hoth.

A beautiful moment, painfully brief, for any stormtrooper that stood between Kylo and his second in command, may the gods have mercy, because Aurra Ren would not.

Rey still had Aurra's quarterstaff strapped across her back, and Aurra still had Kylo's lightsaber clipped to her belt. She ignited it with an inhuman snarl, awash with crimson red. Her forms were swift, precise, deadly. The duelist, they called her, and with good reason.

The ensuing slaughter was gruesome, and Rey reminded herself that these were darksiders at their core. Aurra reaped soldiers like wheat. Janus gunned them down in droves. Caedus crushed a man's skull with his bare hands.

These were not Jedi. These were Knights of Ren.

They cleared a path, laden with bodies. Once and always their master, Kylo urged his acolytes ahead to the shuttle, prioritizing their safety first.

Ulic and Qalar were reluctant to leave him. Could Kylo walk without aid? "Of course I can,” insisted their master. “Go. That’s an order." They hurried along, but kept glancing over their shoulders. "I'm right behind you."

Force-assisted, Rey tossed Aurra her staff, and Aurra extinguished her borrowed blade. In non-Kylo hands, his crossguard saber looked so large, so unwieldy. Though at the moment, he struggled to coordinate his own two feet, much less a laser sword.

Reunited with her beloved master at long last, hanging his hallmark weapon back on her belt, Aurra Ren had only one, deeply heartfelt thing to say. "I won’t give it back until you sober up and build me a saberstaff."

Kylo scowled. An obvious point of contention. “We’ll discuss this later.” Very authoritative in his pajamas and bare feet.

Rey felt a sudden disturbance in the Force. She looked left just as a stormtrooper leveled his blaster at her head.

Lasers went flying, and Rey blocked with her saber, but a single, well-aimed shot slipped by. It cut deep across her thigh.

Only a flesh wound, though it hurt like a bitch. She staggered to one knee, crying out. Though their bond, Kylo Ren must've felt her shock, her pain, her fear. He rounded upon the guilty soldier and extended his arm — wobbly, sedate, and weaponless, if still lethal as hell.

Kylo reached out through the Force, eyes burning, fury unbound, and snapped that sorry sod's neck with a flick of his wrist.

Fighting tooth and nail, the other knights piled onto their shuttle. Aurra tarried at the gangplank. "Master, hurry!"

First Order reinforcements poured in from all sides, blocking their way again, hampering their escape. Fighters launched from their docks, and flametroopers set the entire bay ablaze, corpses and all.

Kylo seized Rey by her scruff and dragged her from the crossfire, hunkering behind his nearby TIE silencer. A very temporary shield. "Can you walk?"

"Of course I can." She jerked away from him, took one tentative step. Her leg gave out again. Oh, shit. That hurt. That hurt a lot.

Decision made, Kylo adapted and overcame, roaring orders to his acolytes. "Aurra, take the shuttle and go!"

"Not without you!"

"Go! Now! We'll get out on the silencer.'" Reluctantly she obeyed, and only when he heard that familiar hum of sublights did Kylo return his attention to Rey. "Holster your saber. I'll carry you."

A grenade exploded not three meters away.

"Are you deranged?!" she screamed over the endless barrage of megablasters. "You're still seeing double and can't even walk in a straight line!"

His drunk self had no business behind the helm of a starfighter. Ten minutes ago he was blind. Fifteen minutes ago he could barely stand. Twenty minutes ago he was comatose. And like hell would Rey let Kylo fucking Ren carry her.

As blaster bolts rained around them, he deflected a few with the Force, then had the audacity to snatch her saber, deactivate it, and strap it to her hip. "Why," bemoaned Kylo in misfortune, "is every woman in my life even more stubborn than the last?"

Calling him all manner of foul names, Rey suffered the indignity of a bridal carry. No time left for discussion or debate. Kylo climbed airstairs to the silencer's cockpit, dodging incinerators and laser blasts, then tripped over himself and flung them both inside in a tangle of limbs.

They were doing this. They were actually gonna do this.

Like all TIEs, the silencer was cramped. Extremely cramped. Kylo dropped into the seat — of a starfighter designed to carry one crewman and one only — and then grabbed Rey by the hips, spun her around, and sat her square in his lap. Their legs spread to accommodate the console and joysticks, and she used his thick torso as a backrest. He stank something terrible, and blood from her wound dripped onto his cotton sleep pants.

Propriety be damned. This was life and death.

"You're right. I'm in no condition to fly." Kylo slammed the hatch, sealing them in. "But you are."

Oh.

A terrible, horrible, no good, very bad idea. Rey was a natural pilot, for sure, but she'd never drilled a TIE simulation before, and the silencer was notoriously difficult to handle. Testy, temperamental, too easy to overcorrect and send yourself careening into an early grave. Behind her, Kylo flipped a dozen different switches, and the dash came alive with multicolored lights.

Life support green. Engines primed. Weapons hot.

Outside, megablasters quaked against their shields. Fuck it. Now or never.

Rey took the throttle and trigger, throwing caution to the wind. "Brace yourself!"

Quarters tight, options limited, Kylo hugged her about the waist as his silencer made liftoff. With a deafening bang, her twin ion engines punched on.

"Whoa!" At breakneck speed, the silencer catapulted from the Supremacy and into open space, momentum flinging Rey backward into Kylo's chest. Her elbow jammed his stomach, and her head bashed his chin. "This thing really moves!"

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Right on cue, a gift from the goddess named Leia Organa, her illustrious Black Squadron screamed out of hyperspace in a volley of red cannons.

They engaged three dozen TIE fighters, all descending upon the Knights of Ren and their near defenseless shuttle. Bringing up the rear, Rey veered the silencer into weapons' range and spun into a dive. One distinctive X-wing zipped overhead, weaving and twirling, a black and orange lunatic ready to blow them out of the sky.

"Kenobi to Black Leader!" she hailed into the comlink. "Hold fire, Poe— it's me!"

Communications crackled. She overheard a few screeching beeps from BB-8, then Poe Dameron's iconic woohoo. "Is that my favorite Jedi, flying a silencer?!" He swerved to avoid her, rejoining formation. "TIE hijackers unite! Welcome to the club."

"Borrowed," corrected Rey. "I borrowed a TIE. From a guy who owes me a favor."

She shifted on Kylo’s lap and dug her elbow into his gut again. His _oofph_ echoed in the overcrowded cockpit.

Malcontent as a passenger in his own starfighter, Kylo reached around her and flipped to a different frequency, cutting Poe off. "Ren to shuttle. Sedriss, we'll cover you." Through their bond, Rey sensed his agitation, his distress. All six of his acolytes and their droid were onboard that ship, taking heavy fire. "Haul ass to lightspeed, and don't stop until you taste Craitan salt."

More static, then came the voice of Sedriss Ren, a whiz-bang pilot amongst the knights. "Copy that." He hesitated only a moment longer. "And Kenobi? May the Force be with you." He knew she, not Kylo, had the silencer's helm. Their flight patterns were vastly different. "Show these flyboys how it's done, and bring my master home. Please."

Precious cargo. Rey tightened her grip on the throttle. "Understood."

Black Squadron rallied with the TIE silencer in a protective spiral, buying just enough time for their shuttle to push clear of the dogfight and vanish into hyperspace. Missiles hurled harmlessly through the vacuum, and green lasers fizzled like dying fireworks.

Flush at her back, right into her ear, Kylo Ren exhaled in breathy relief. Their bond spoke volumes. His knights were safe.

A short-lived peace, because now the TIE fighters turned on them. In his finest form, Poe whooped with insane glee. "Make me proud, Master Jedi!" No wonder vacheads called him the Starkiller's Bane; whether a reference to General Hux or the base itself was unclear. Either way, he led the charge in reckless abandon.

Rey had almost forgotten how much she loved flying, so swamped with meditations and histories and being a picture perfect padawan. But some ships deserve their due reverence, and the TIE silencer— well, hot damn.

Now _this_ was a starfighter.

The Resistance ran on fumes and refurbished antiques, but Kylo Ren spared no expense. Don't get her wrong, Rey adored a good X-wing, loyal and faithful and trusty, but sometimes a girl's gotta treat herself to that one sordid affair.

And traitor she might be, but she'd even two-time the Millennium Falcon for a silencer. Rey twitched the joystick, barely trying, and executed an effortless hairpin turn.

"Oh, spoil me, baby." For the briefest moment, she forgot the Jedi Code, as well as the questionable company in that cockpit, because this wasn't flying. This was dirty dancing. "I think I'm in love."

Pinned behind and beneath her, Kylo sputtered with prudish indignation. "Focus, scavenger. And don't molest my ship."

"Switch off." Rey picked off three fighters in three shots. Waste not. "Your ship and I need a moment alone."

She banked hard to starboard, reforming ranks with Black Squadron in prep for a lightspeed jump. Unfortunately, after a series of rather acrobatic spins, alarms blared from the dash, a pressure gauge tipped red, and the silencer jostled and lurched.

"Don't pull up during a barrel roll," scolded Kylo, as if every idiot knew that. "The ship's too long. It strains the inertial dampener."

Rey raised a judgmental brow. "Then tell Sienar-Jaemus to redesign their dampeners."

By the junker's creed, nothing can reach its full potential without a little tinkering, so she mashed a blinking button on the console, flipped an overhead switch, cranked that dial to maximum, and unplugged a wire under the seat.

The alarms stopped. The gauges normalized. And when Rey banked hard to port, the silencer sailed like a dreamboat again. Now the inertial dampener didn't give two shits if she pulled up during a barrel roll, leveling a few more fighters along the way.

"What— " Kylo balked in astonishment, skimming the readouts. "What'd you do to my ship?!"

Rey shrugged. "Fixed her."

"I filed over a dozen post-flight reports!" He was livid, positively seething. "Our mechanics said it was a design flaw, unfixable— "

"Everything's fixable." She glanced over her shoulder. Their faces were suddenly and unintentionally close, and his stubble tickled the back of her neck. "If somebody cares enough to try."

Another wave of TIE fighters erupted from the Supremacy, and even Poe Dameron decided enough was enough. "On my mark," he hailed across all frequencies, "let's get the hell outta dodge."

Three, two, one, and hyperdrives engaged in tandem, hurling the silencer and Black Squadron to lightspeed.

A missile detonated where they'd been not a millisecond before. Sweet victory.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Bathed in the vibrant blue of hyperspace, heart slowing, hands shaking, Rey took stock of her newest predicament.

Battle won, but war just begun. Cruising at lightspeed, the return flight to Crait was over eight hours long. All well and good, except when crammed together in a single-pilot TIE, perched in her archenemy's lap with a charred gash across on her thigh.

And icing on the cake of misfortune, Rey still wore the fitted black leathers of a Knight of Ren.

Compliments of their Force bond, she and Kylo came to the exact same realization at the exact same instant.

They were smushed into each other's space for the next eight kriffing hours. And she thought dreamsharing was bad enough.

Even though he stared down a Sith until the Sith blinked first, now Kylo futzed and fumbled his words. "I didn't, er— " Sandwiched between her and the seat, that massive man hogged three-quarters of the cockpit, and he seemed genuinely unsure where to put his enormous hands. "Full disclosure, I didn't think this far ahead."

Rey set the silencer to autopilot and crossed her arms, glaring over her shoulder. "I bet you didn't."

Bracing against the console, she hoisted herself and her throbbing leg, carefully avoiding a joystick to the gut. Best make herself comfortable, if otherwise miserable. But no sooner did she start fidgeting than Kylo dissuaded her, almost violent in his insistence.

"Don't do that."

"Don't do what?" snipped Rey, wriggling and bouncing back into his lap. She wasn't doing anything. "Don't sit on you? Should've factored that into your brilliant escape plan."

Some small corner of her brain acknowledged this rage as wholly unreasonable. Awkward it might be, but at least they weren't dead. And her hankering to fly the TIE silencer was well satisfied.

A little too well satisfied, actually. Eight hours too well.

Still, this entire debacle was at least 85% his fault. And for the sole purpose of being contrary, Rey lifted and leaned back again, squishing him even further. Kylo sputtered in turn, her flyaway hair caught in his mouth, and the hilt of his lightsaber jammed into her wounded thigh.

Maybe they could pass the time finding creative new ways to kill each other within a cockpit less than three meters square.

In desperation, Kylo tried to escape from under her, but he'd nowhere to go. "Don't trifle with me, scavenger." Says the stupidly large man whose crossguard saber still prodded her. Rey wiggled to avoid it, but his fingers dug reflexively into her hip, and he stifled a yelp. "Quit y-your bouncing." His voice dropped an octave. " _Now._ "

"Then hand over your lightsaber," snarled Rey, sick to death of his nagging. "It's poking me."

That aborted choke from Kylo Ren was not a human sound.

And he made no move to surrender the weapon. At first, Rey figured his neurons really had marinated too long in First Order narcotics, until she recalled in a baffling flurry—

_Aurra still has his saber._

Safekeeping, onboard the command shuttle. And Rey's hung innocuously from her belt.

Then what was that thick hilt jabbing her in the— oh. _Oh._

Oh, no.

No, no, no. She felt him through her trousers and his loose sleep pants, hot and hard against her bum. _You gotta be kriffing kidding._ They just flambéed a Sith lord and flew in a dogfight. He was high on top dollar drugs and hadn't showered in a week. Her leg was bleeding on him. They were fleeing for their lives.

And he couldn't possibly be that big.

Except he absolutely was. Rey clenched with a feeling that wasn't entirely fear.

The tension inside that TIE silencer stretched for eons. "I told you," growled Kylo, low and furious, gritting his teeth and gripping the armrests so hard his knuckles blanched white. "Quit. Bouncing." An afterthought. "Please."

Fresh from an eight-day coma, human male physiology did not endure pent-up frustration well. And adrenaline, mixed with a warm body in tight leathers squirming in his lap, only made it worse.

Rey went still as a statue, her bottom flush with his groin, locked together in a cockpit built for one. "I— I'm really sorry." Three times Kylo asked her to stop, and she blatantly ignored him. Mortified didn't even begin to describe her. "I swear, I didn't— I didn't know I was— "

Force alive, she felt like such a foolish little girl sometimes, playing at war with a man dangerous enough to ruin her mind, body, and soul.

He could've. Nothing to stop him as they hurdled through hyperspace on autopilot, cozy and alone in his starfighter. He could've taken whatever he wanted. And the scariest part: for an overwhelming instant, caged at his mercy, feeling so very tiny in his lap, Rey was almost... disappointed when nothing happened.

"Don't flatter yourself," grumbled Kylo Ren. Brave words, when his cock had all manner of flattery in mind. "This, it's— it's fine." Nothing about this was fine. Not a single solitary thing. "Just ignore it. It'll go away."

And pray tell, exactly how long might that take? With her luck and his stamina, atop week-long denial, probably a while.

Ignore it. Ignore _that?_ Fat chance. Rey had never felt a man hard against her before, and the master of the Knights of Ren was an alarmingly proportional giant.

Her disbelief must've trickled down their bond, because his breath hitched at the backhanded compliment. "We never speak of this again, understood?" Kylo closed his eyes, bit his lip, ears flushed a handsome red against the blue outside. "And no more bouncing."

Her light side obeyed.

Her dark side spent the next eight hours wondering what would happen if she didn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry, but I couldn't help myself. You fine people posted a Tumblr [prompt](http://praemonitor.tumblr.com/post/169700558349/what-i-want-to-know-is-does-rey-get-a-ride-in-the) for 'Rey flies the TIE silencer while sitting on Kylo's lap,' and honestly where else did you expect me to take that? :)
> 
> In other news, I also saw a prompt for 'Rey wears Padmé Amidala's backless ombre lake gown, cue drooling Kylo.' Slow writer I might be, darlings, but challenge accepted. Eventually.
> 
> P.S. I obviously lurk in the shadows on [Tumblr](http://praemonitor.tumblr.com), come say hello!


	3. Last of the Old

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A heartfelt thank you to the Reylo and Gingerpilot fam for sharing your wonderful reviews and theories. As always, everyone is welcome to join the party in the comments for Q&A and behind-the-scenes fun facts (i.e. rambling about our favs). Writing for you is an honor and privilege!
> 
> Full disclosure, this minisode is absurdly long because it sets up Hux and Poe to costar in a political subplot to end all subplots. Unstoppable force, meet immovable object. We're bringing darkness and light into balance, so let's not half-ass it. How many villains can one fic convert into reluctant antiheroes? I'm very glad you asked...
> 
> **Featured Ships of Minisode III**  
>  \- Reylo fluff and slow burn, the usual  
> \- the grassroots of Gingerpilot (ft. Hux being a boss)
> 
> **Content Warnings for Minisode III**  
>  \- **[ Minisode Spoiler ]** space battle with millions of causalities but  no major character death  
> \- **[ Minisode Spoiler ]** Hux's physically/emotionally abusive and alcoholic (late) father  
>  \- several graphic mentions of bleeding, suffocation, and being buried alive  
> \- drug withdrawal symptoms  
> 

**Minisode III:**  
**Last of the Old**

Qalar Ren kept his word.

No sooner had Black Squadron, the command shuttle, and TIE silencer made planetfall on Crait than medics swarmed them. Rey finished her landing sequence and sat tight in the starfighter’s cockpit, still perched on Kylo’s lap.

And trapped together, for better or worse, they watched through a red-tinted viewport as the Resistance hanger came alive with swirling salt dust and organized chaos. Somewhere out there were General Organa and Master Luke, awaiting their reunion with a certain prodigal Skywalker.

Rey glanced over her shoulder. "Welcome home, Ben."

Kylo swallowed hard.

Wholly unscathed, Poe Dameron and BB-8 clambered from Black One, greeted with hugs and whoops of victory. Slightly worse for wear were the Knights of Ren, battered and bruised and bleeding as they disembarked their shuttle. All unmasked, their black robes torn and tattered, plus Janus with a wicked laceration across his temple, Caedus and his dislocated shoulder, Qalar’s broken nose, even BB-9E's bent antennae. 

Dr. Kalonia fretted and fussed over them, but Qalar slipped away, producing a code cylinder from his pocket: the key to the First Order’s kingdom, a backdoor into the Supremacy’s mainframe, a priceless gift for Resistance intelligence and great big fuck you at General Hux.

And darksider Qalar Ren might be, but a promise was a promise. _"You find my master, and get me and mine off this ship alive, it's yours."_

Rey fulfilled her end of the bargain. Now to fulfill his.

To his utmost credit, Qalar made no grand gestures, no pomp or circumstance, no bid for glory or recognition. He simply forked over the device to a nearby Rose Tico, who cradled it like a newborn babe and bolted for command central.

Amid the flurry and confusion, Aurra Ren muscled through the crowd, impervious to her second-degree burns and black eye. Force signature wailing like a siren, she seized a medic by his arm and pointed frantically at the TIE silencer.

Rey heard her without actually hearing, ”Forget about us. Help our master.”

Still pinned between Rey and the seat, Kylo reached above his head and released the silencer’s hatch. It depressurized with a hiss. Now only to rid his lapful of Jedi padawan.

"Get off me, scavenger."

Rey tried to stand, really she tried, but her injured thigh blazed in agony and began bleeding in earnest again. Gods alive, but blaster bolts hurt. Kylo caught her as she lost balance, fell backwards, collapsed against his solid chest and grungy sleep shirt.

"I— I can't stand." Rey rued her own weakness, resenting even more that Kylo Ren bore witness. Her blood stained his pants, his sleeves, his hands. How much had she lost? It sure looked like a lot of blood, but she felt no dizziness, no nausea. "My leg— "

"Rey? Rey!" came Finn’s frantic voice, music to her ears, washing away fear and pain and frustration. He climbed atop the silencer, banging against her hull, scrambling for purchase, until his handsome face appeared in the open hatch.

Rey flooded with relief, smiling the brightest smile ever smiled, until Finn saw her blood all over everything, including the master of the Knights of Ren. He reflexively drew his blaster, aimed at Kylo's head.

Not a millisecond later, Kylo seized the gun with the Force and crushed its barrel beyond recognition.

"Ceasefire, both of you," snapped Rey. "We're all on the same side now.” She was so incredibly through with playing the middleman, the peacemonger. "Please get me out of this kriffing cockpit."

She reached for Finn, who hoisted under her armpits, while Kylo helped to lift her up and out of the starfighter. In their shuffle, she kneed Kylo in the sternum, and his palm grazed her bum through her leather trousers.

If he noticed or cared, Kylo gave no indication.

An accident then. Probably.

Finally free, finally safe, Rey curled into the comfort and security and welcoming arms of Finn. Balanced precariously atop the TIE silencer, he cradled her close and applied pressure to her wound, all while shouting at the top of his lungs for airstairs, for medics, for General Organa and Master Luke.

"Gurney stat! Kenobi's down!" As if this entire situation weren't already a powder keg, her friend poured panicky fuel on an overprotective fire. The hanger, already a mob scene, descended into complete pandemonium at the magic words, "Jedi down, repeat, _Jedi down!_ "

The Resistance had lost its base, its fleet, its government, its allies, its hope and pride, the vast majority of its people. They couldn't afford to lose a Jedi. They couldn't afford to lose Rey. And though well meant, their obsessive concern was simultaneously fulsome and condescending.

Rey rolled her eyes. She was hurt, no doubt, but very far from death's door. "S'not as bad as it looks. Blaster bolt, just a graze." Irregardless, she clung to Finn's flight jacket, content never to let go. "Nothing a little bacta won't fix."

Finn shook his head, unconvinced, especially now that her blood was all over him too. "Dr. Kalonia will be the judge of that."

Several members of Black Squadron, aided by the least injured Knights of Ren, fashioned a makeshift gurney from a salt minecart and repurposed hull plating. Finn helped Rey to limp down the airstairs, and her leg was already half bandaged by the time Leia and Luke arrived.

Chatter faded into whispers, all eyes upon the Jedi master and Resistance general.

Supine on a stretcher and swarmed by medics, Rey opened her mouth to explain herself, to debrief her commanding officers. She never got the chance, because Leia engulfed her in a bone-crushing hug.

"Where is he?" The general was trembling. "My son, where— "

"Here."

Halfway down the airstairs stood Kylo Ren, unshaven face and matted hair caked with his own blood, clothes soaked in Rey’s. An imposing figure, even as he gripped the railing with one hand, still unsteady on bare feet. Despite his wounds, his withdrawal, his week-long coma and filthy attire, Kylo descended the last few steps with his chin held high and expression schooled. Behind him loomed the TIE silencer, sleek and dark and deadly, a foreboding reminder of what Ben Solo had become.

And for the first time in a long time, all three Skywalkers were together again.

Nobody moved, nobody spoke. As a good Jedi ought, Master Luke smothered his feelings, shielded his thoughts, but General Organa didn't even try.

She wasn't a Jedi. She was a mother, and last she stood face to face with her son, he was barely into manhood, a padawan filled with hopeful naiveté.

Her reaction to the unmasked Kylo Ren was poignant and visceral, a thousand times more painful than any blaster bolt. Leia projected an emotional onslaught through the Force, of which Rey caught only snippets.

_My precious Ben, my sweet boy._  
_He's so tall, taller even than his father._  
_Those eyes, brown eyes, my eyes._  


Sharp as a knife came the general's unbridled rage at Snoke, at Darth Plagueis, pure and unadulterated hate for the First Order, the Centrists, the Empire. She mourned all those years lost to abuse and darkness and fear, to manipulation and mind games.

_What fresh hell has my son been through._  
_That terrible scar down his face._  
_Oh, gods what have they done to you—_  


If Rey could hear these fragments, his mother's grief, then so too could Kylo Ren, though he hid it well. Rivulets of sweat and oil and blood trickled down his forehead, his arms, his neck, now dry and flaking where probes and wires were once embedded under skin. Every evil in the Sith repertoire, Ben Solo had endured.

Except, of course, that scar down his face. His mother need never know where he got that.

"You're hurt." Leia reached out to her son, but Kylo shrank away. "Let me help you, Ben. Please let me in."

Kylo opened his mouth, as if to correct her, but thought better of it. Instead he deflected, his next words spoken neither to his mother, nor his uncle, but to Dr. Kalonia as she scanned, cleaned, and dressed Rey's wound.

"The girl was shot approximately eight hours ago, F-11D blaster rifle. Did it hit something vital?" His cadence held steady, nonchalant, almost clinical, but their Force bond vibrated with worry. The Jedi killer, anxious about the wellbeing of a Jedi? Times were changing indeed. "Is the hemorrhage significant?"

Taken aback, Kalonia glanced between Kylo and Rey, sizing up a very complex situation, reading between the lines. "Single plasma burn, no compromise to majority arteries or nerves." The good doctor smiled at Rey, squeezing her hand with fond relief. "Like you said, nothing a little bacta and physiotherapy won't fix."

Cheers rang through the Resistance. Morally obligated to tease Finn, her big brother in every way that mattered, Rey mouthed, "Told you so," as he ruffled her hair and mussed her braids and kissed her sweaty forehead.

Next came the flood of questions, so many questions from pilots and mechanics and medics, each desperate to hear firsthand how Rey Kenobi and the Knights of Ren had infiltrated the Supremacy, bested a Sith lord, and escaped with their lives. What a tale to tell: darksiders and lightsiders united under one banner, working together, fighting an unbeatable foe, bringing balance to the Force.

A legend in the making.

While the freedom fighters celebrated with boisterous noise and promise of Corellian whiskey, the Knights of Ren cared only for their master, gathering quietly around him, huddling close, while BB-9E screeched and spun about their feet.

Aurra unclipped his crossgaurd saber from her belt and pressed it into Kylo's chest. "We saved you." She folded her arms, uncompromising. "You still owe me a saberstaff."

Kylo tucked the weapon into his waistband and patted her shoulder. "I'll see what I can do."

For all his genius, all his sass, Qalar Ren really was just a curious kid, clinging to the other knights, tugging their sleeves and cloaks, wide-eyed with wonderment. "That old man over there." He stared at a certain Jedi, who'd thus far kept his distance. "Is that really Luke Skywalker?"

Master Luke bowed his head. "Welcome to Crait, padawan." He took a single step forward, one measly step.

As if his uncle had dropped a live grenade, Kylo launched himself in front of Qalar, shoving him backward, shielding him from apparent danger. Old betrayals, still unforgiven.

"Stand down, kinslayer." Kylo bared his teeth at Luke, reminiscent of a mother bear protecting her cubs. "If you so much as breathe at my knights, if you threaten a hair on their heads, you'll wish you had burned with your temple."

Master Luke raised both hands, palms out, placating and nonaggressive. "I mean you and yours no harm, and I'm grateful only for Rey's safe return." Surprisingly enough, he spoke next to Sedriss and Ulic, his tone familiar and fatherly. "Jacen. Kanan. Seeing you again brings warm feelings to my heart."

Wait, what the— how did Luke know those two darksiders, and their real names to boot, when only Aurra, Janus, and Caedus initially came to Crait? Rey balked and floundered, until logic overcame confusion. As he told the story of that terrible night when his nephew turned to darkness, Ben Solo had disappeared with a handful of other students.

_A handful of other students._ Newsflash, but the Jedi killer didn't actually kill all the other padawans, and Kylo wasn't the only Knight of Ren who once trained under Luke Skywalker.

Sedriss and Ulic must be fallen Jedi too. Painfully obvious now, since they looked about as thrilled with this reunion as Kylo himself, while the younger knights were simply shellshocked or starstruck or both.

Master Luke tried once more to rebuild bridges. "How'd you escape from Snoke?"

"Snoke is dead," said Ulic, sans preamble. "Kenobi killed him."

The entire hanger fell silent as a tomb. Time itself ground to a halt. Even the saltwater dripping from stalactites and crystalline vulptices faded into nothingness, and the Craitan caves were frozen, still as artwork. Every soul in the Resistance absorbed these words, digested them, let the news percolate.

Snoke is dead. Kenobi killed him.

Snoke is dead. Kenobi killed him.

_Snoke is dead. Kenobi killed him._

Finally, finally, Poe Dameron broke the spell, each syllable pointed and pure. "The Supreme Leader of the First Order is— " Language caught in his throat. An impressive feat, given the forces of nature typically required to render Captain Talksalot speechless.

Ever helpful, BB-8 finished the sentence for him, beeping in elated binary, and all subsequent sounds produced by the Resistance were an incoherent, deafening roar. Such joy hadn't been felt since the fall of the Empire. People were hugging and kissing and crying, Black Squadron still in their flak vests and orange fatigues.

Finn threw his arms around Rey, nearly strangling her. "You took down a Sith lord?!"

"Kylo helped." She might've fired the kill shot, given Darth Plagueis his own taste of lightning, but Rey couldn't reasonably take all the credit. "And the Knights of Ren fought off a dozen Praetorians."

But the Resistance was long lost in that honeymoon phase of victory, where nobody much cared for details. Especially true for Poe Dameron, who was damn near beside himself, bounding around General Organa, spinning her in a dance absent music.

"We'll broadcast the news on all frequencies, into every corner of the HoloNet," shouted the pilot, "from Yavin to Coruscant to Tatooine!"

Amid the festivities, the popping bottles and revelry, Luke and Leia exchanged a wordless glance, tinged with nerves. Rey heard their question before either asked it.

"How'd you do it, padawan?" demanded her master, tone so casual it wasn't casual in the slightest. "How'd you kill Snoke?"

Force lightning. No sugarcoating it.

Rey could wield Force lightning, and she could kill with it. Her friends and mentors deserved to know, to understand what she was capable of. They lived with her, trusted her. They were forgiving. Armed only with honesty, Rey opened her mouth with every intention to confess and clear her conscience.

That is, until she felt a telepathic flick behind her left ear, and fear sliced through their Force bond like a dagger.

His fear, not hers.

Kylo Ren was afraid for her. <Lie, lie, lie.> Inside her head, his voice was a frantic whisper, a desperate plea, echoing through the deepest recesses of her mind. <Only you and I know the truth. We'll take it to our graves.>

Rey hesitated. <Why?>

Kylo issued an extrasensory warning, audible only to his bondmate. <Skywalker thought to murder his own nephew for an inclination toward the dark side.> Gods alive, but were Ben Solo's eyes always so soulful, so hypnotizing? Their bond blazed wide open, and Rey sensed no deception, no ill will, only his heartfelt and genuine desire to protect her, to protect all his knights. <Force knows what he'll do to someone who can generate Sith lightning.>

Sith lightning, because the only Force-sensitives known to produce it de novo were Sith lords.

And now, Rey too.

"Master Kenobi?" prompted General Organa, cautiously curious. "Is something wrong?"

Yes, since she faced yet another difficult choice, light versus dark, a decision rooted entirely upon whom Rey trusted the least. Was it Luke Skywalker, the illustrious Jedi who trained her, yet still clung to the archaic, polarized teachings of a bygone era? Or was it Kylo Ren, heir apparent to Darth Vader, but Rey's equal and opposite in all things?

Jedi do not negotiate with darksiders. Jedi do not kill their enemies with Force lightning. Jedi do not lie to their masters. But then again, Rey had very recently come to terms with something profound about herself, something fundamental, something decidedly and unavoidably gray.

She was only half Jedi.

Her other half, well— _"Maybe you're a Knight of Ren."_

That didn't scare her nearly enough as it should anymore. And knowing this, embracing this, believing it with every fiber, Rey Kenobi stared Luke Skywalker square in the eye, unwavering, confident, no room for doubt.

"Shatterpoint." She lied through her teeth. "I killed Snoke with shatterpoint."

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The refreshers on Crait ran with saltwater, lukewarm at best.

A far cry from luxury sonics on a Star Destroyer, but they served Kylo’s purpose well enough. Every faucet and drain was crusted and clogged with mineral. His soap ration came as a scentless, all-in-one powder. And the shower head was only as tall as his chin, so Kylo knelt to rinse grime and oil and dried blood from his hair.

Eight days of filth finally washed away.

He scrubbed gingerly over the bruises where intravenous catheters once were: at his throat, the backs of his hands, the crooks of his elbows, even the tops of his feet. To maintain his coma, to hold a powerful Force-sensitive pliant and prisoner, the First Order blew every blood vessel he had.

The mighty Kylo Ren, reduced to a pincushion, a science experiment.

Upon arrival to Crait, the Resistance medics tested him for a slew of pharmacologic agents. The list of drugs Kylo _hadn't_ received was shorter.

A lot shorter.

Quickwake reversed his sedation, but side effects lingered. He could still taste the sickly sweetness of xyalone inhalant, smothering his nose and mouth. His hands trembled after sudden withdrawal from kouhunin. Legs weak with disuse, it took three tries for him to stand from kneeling in the refresher.

Kylo wrapped his waist in a towel — clean, if tattered and coarse — then dressed in drab white linens, standard issue to medbay inpatients. Exhaustion and narcotics shot his fine motor skills straight to hell, so his two eldest acolytes helped button his shirt, dry his hair, and apply fresh bacta patches.

The rebels couldn't spare enough bacta to fill a whole tank, what with their supplies dwindling and no way to restock. Haven through Crait might be, they'd wither and starve and die in these caves unless somebody planned an escape.

And soon.

Decked in hospital garb and reasonably hygienic, Kylo limped back to his creaky cot in medbay, leaning heavily on Sedriss and Ulic. Unable to resist, his knights both mused, "Been a few years since you wore white, Master Ren."

Indeed it had. Not since the night Luke Skywalker betrayed his nephew. Not since the night Ben Solo died, Kylo Ren reborn from his ashes. History remembered another burning temple, another Jedi massacre. Kylo remembered it differently: a lost and frightened boy, whose uncle plotted to murder him in his sleep.

And like a cornered animal, he lashed out with the Force, tore a building from its foundations, buried them both alive.

Kylo might’ve died there, crushed under rubble, had Sedriss and Ulic not dug him out.

Once upon a time, they were Skywalker's padawans too. Every day they sparred together, ate together, took lessons together, snored through meditations together. Ben Solo didn’t make friends easily, preferring solitude or the company of books, but Jacen Syndulla and Kanan Bridger were stubbornly persistent, sarcastic, outspoken, discontent with rebuilding the Jedi Order only to repeat its past mistakes.

They were the odd ducks, the troublemakers, the rejects. But in a way, so was Ben.

And amongst a dozen students, they alone believed the infallible Master Luke might raise a lightsaber against his own flesh and blood. They alone, the young men who would soon become Sedriss and Ulic Ren, believed that Ben Solo acted in self-defense.

The other padawans called them all liars.

And when the other padawans attacked, the other padawans died, slaughtered by three newborn Knights of Ren.

From that day forward, Kylo leaned on Sedriss and Ulic far more than he cared to admit. When his old life burned with the temple, they picked up the pieces. When the pull to the light was too strong, they gave him courage to resist. When Snoke's discipline was especially cruel, they tended his wounds, lessened the scars. Never had Kylo known such devotion, such faith, such caring and regard.

Not even from his own parents, who prioritized politics and smuggling before their son.

And when Kylo had disappeared eight days ago, vanished without a trace, his knights could've left him for dead. Honestly, they should've. Safer, easier, simply select a new master and move on.

But they didn't.

Instead, they defected from the First Order to rescue him, threw away everything they'd ever known, condemned themselves as lifelong fugitives. And in reward for their sacrifice, the darksiders were stranded on this godsforsaken salt rock in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by mouthy rebels and pretentious Jedi.

"Worth it." Janus shrugged, as a medidroid stitched his split forehead back together. "Just to see the look on Hux's face while he choked."

For the next week, Dr. Kalonia kept Kylo as her unwilling hostage, never alone, constantly monitored by hypervigilant guards, armed with blasters. His knights were treated as outpatients and assigned to empty bunks in the barracks, but preferred to keep vigil at their master's bedside, smushed into an alcove far too small to sleep seven people, plus an ornery astromech.

Safety in numbers, for humans and droids alike.

Their very first night on Crait, while dust settled and the Resistance drank itself sick in celebration, a well-meaning medic actually tried to kick Kylo's acolytes and BB-9E out of medbay. He went so far as to grab Aurra by her arm.

He and his broken wrist learned their lesson very quickly. Nobody thought to separate the Knights of Ren forcibly again.

But by necessity, not choice, Qalar was oft requested in command central — an invitation, insisted General Organa, not an order. His input proved invaluable to Resistance intelligence, especially while rooting through this massive influx of pirated data from the Supremacy's mainframe.

Terabytes upon terabytes of highly sensitive First Order communications, security footage, and top secret research. Qalar really outdid himself this time, and Kylo was in no position to deny aid to his mother, however estranged. But the idea of his youngest apprentice, wandering the rebel base alone, didn't sit well.

Crait was unsafe for darksiders, because Luke Skywalker was here.

And deep down, even Rey herself knew that, because she lied to the Jedi, withheld the whole truth: first about her bond with the master of the Knights of Ren, next about the circumstance of Snoke's death.

Force lightning. The scavenger could generate Force lightning, a Sith trademark and the tip of a very lethal iceberg.

In a different place, in a different time, people like her were worshipped as gods.

And rightly so. Just look at her.

Banished to the far corner of medbay, Kylo caught only occasional glimpses of Rey nowadays. Her blaster burn healed without complication, but she still came and went for physiotherapy. Turns out, Poe Dameron was certified in Massassi neuropressure, a unique branch of traditional Yavinese medicine that required years of study. Only a few dozen people in the entire galaxy were proficient — Dameron learned from his father — and Dr. Kalonia called upon him during ancillary treatment for everything from insomnia to migraines to chronic neck pain.

This meant the sass-mouthing pilot had an excuse to massage Rey's leg with his bare hands for an hour every other day.

And she enjoyed it. Immensely. Kylo felt her eager anticipation through the Force bond, her disappointment on off days, her relaxation during and after. She and Dameron always talked and laughed through their sessions, which were otherwise very clinical, deeply professional, a far cry from the flyboy's usual sarcasm and cheeky quips.

Here and now, Dameron was all business, proud to do his duty and help a beloved Jedi.

Still, it drove Kylo up the kriffing wall.

Smack in the middle of medbay, Rey perched on a rusty exam table in her flowy white robes, while Dameron sat on a low crate with her foot in his lap, fingers rubbing her calf and knee in precise, practiced patterns. As usual, they gossiped and cracked innocent jokes, while Kylo watched from the cot in his side room, quietly seething.

His mental shields were leakier than a broken faucet, and his bondmate sensed displeasure rolling off him in waves.

Rey glanced over her shoulder a few times, before finally confronting him — discretely, privately, telepathically. No one else seemed to notice her frown. <Neuropressure is a well recognized physiotherapy and makes me feel better.> She rolled her eyes. <I'm supposed to like it.>

Kylo didn't buy that for a second. <And you're completely indifferent to your masseur being the Resistance heartthrob?>

He hit a nerve. Rey was extremely protective of her friends. <His proper title is 'certified neuropressure technician,' which Poe underwent exhaustive training to earn. He volunteers his time for Dr. Kalonia's patients.> She huffed. <Don't sexualize him or belittle his skill. It's very disrespectful.>

<He's groping your thigh.>

Rey tilted her head, intrigued, sifting through their bond and latching onto that one pesky emotion Kylo tried so hard not to feel.

<You're... jealous.> A curious statement, not a question.

Dameron was unfairly handsome. Add that to the things Kylo hated about him. <I'm not jealous.>

<Are too.>

<Am not.>

<Quit wasting my time.> Rey stuck her proud nose in the air, determined to indulge in the neuropressure without further interruption. Kylo assumed their conversation was over, until she added an afterthought. <And not that it's your business, or relevant in any fashion, but I'm really not Poe's type.>

Kylo had wondered about that. Rey was only nineteen, over a decade his and Dameron's junior. <Because you're too young?>

She shot him a dry look, eyebrow quirked. <Because I'm too female, laser brain.>

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Odd things were happening onboard the Supremacy.

At first, General Hux chalked it up to stress, chaos, insomnia. He never slept well, on account of a compressed spinal nerve at the fifth cervical vertebrae, but a week without rest was pushing the limits of human endurance. In the wake of their Supreme Leader's untimely death, a power vacuum had emerged, and infighting amongst First Order high command reached a fever pitch.

Nobody mourned Snoke, not really. His demise opened too many doors for too many officers. On the cusp of admiralty, Captain Peavey circled his impeding promotion like a vulture. Colonels Kaplan and Garmuth were at each other’s throats for command of the Retribution. And don't forget Major Stridan, ever entitled, coveting the vacant throne almost as much as Hux himself.

As ruthless an opportunist as anyone, Armitage Hux was no stranger to ambition, nor to climbing the political ladder over a few dead bodies — his own father's included. But _this_ violated him to the core, this complete uproar, this utter anarchy, this total breakdown of societal order.

Rumor surrounding Snoke's murder spread like wildfire. Kylo Ren was a turncoat, he and his knights in league with Kenobi, with Skywalker, with Organa. Together, balancing darkness with light, they could lazarus the Jedi religion from its ashes like a blazing starbird.

And with it, a fool's hope.

_"We are the spark that will light the fire that will burn the First Order down."_ That's what they were saying, those disillusioned insurgents. Nonsense, rubbish, nothing but swill. What little remained of the Resistance was no threat to anyone, stranded on a wasteland planet, cowering in caves like savages, distress calls unanswered, forgotten and abandoned at the Outer Rim.

Let them rot on Crait, and let their bones fade into salt dust and red ochre. They’d no infrastructure, no resources, no allies. Less than a hundred rebels were left alive. By optimistic projections, their rations would last six months, maybe eight, and their fleet was threadbare: a few escape pods incapable of lightspeed, a handful of outdated X-wings, a stolen command shuttle and TIE silencer, one Corellian freighter.

A joke, a farce.

And yet, they slaughtered the Supreme Leader of the First Order aboard his own flagship, because the Resistance had Jedi. The Force was with them. And from therein stemmed uncertainty and fear.

On his morning walk to the Supremacy’s bridge for alpha shift, General Hux caught a gaggle of junior officers whispering in a corridor, cowering with dread.

"If the Jedi killed Leader Snoke, what's to stop them from killing us all?" These petty officers and lieutenants were young, the lot of them, no doubt fresh from academy. "Last night I saw a chair floating in the ready room, levitating midair, like something straight from a horror holo."

"I saw a barbell fling across the rec room — all by itself — and fall into the lap pool!"

Another officer squeaked in terror. "Jedi can do that?"

"From halfway across the galaxy?" piped a fourth, voice quivering. "Is nowhere safe?"

Hux rounded the corner, sporting his very best scowl, tall and imposing in a gaberwool greatcoat. The junior officers scattered, snapping to attention.

"Force-sensitives are not gods," he snarled, nipping such hokum in the bud. "Jedi bleed like any mortal man, and they most certainly cannot smite a dreadnought from the sky by sheer force of will."

After a meek little chorus of "Yes, general," one of the braver lieutenants piped up. "But, sir— I saw a chair levitate in the ready room during delta shift. I swear I did." She swallowed hard. "And if there are no Force-sensitives left alive on this ship, then how— "

Hux had no time for such childish games, not with their political situation so tenuous. He interrupted her. "Your name and current assignment, lieutenant?" With over two million crewmen onboard the Supremacy, a general couldn't be bothered to remember them all.

"Stynnix, sir." Her uniform was impeccable, and her parade rest in perfect form. Somebody had trained her well, but apparently not well enough. "Lusica Stynnix, auxiliary communications."

"Lieutenant Stynnix." When he found a spare minute, Hux would review her personnel file. "You may be experiencing auditory and visual hallucinations. Report to medbay immediately."

Without further argument, she hung her head and scurried off.

"The rest of you," snapped General Hux, "back to work before I log a permanent infraction on your records."

The junior officers bolted in various different directions, tails between their legs.

Sufficiently pleased with his ability to strike fear into hearts, Hux boarded a turbolift and entered coordinates for the bridge. Truly colossal was the First Order flagship, in every sense of the word, and a digital chrono counted down the eight minute, forty-two second travel time from the officers' quarters to the command decks.

Not one for inefficiency — Admiral Sloane didn't raise a slacker — Hux busied himself on his datapad, searching the crew manifest for Stynnix, Luscia: human, female, age nineteen standard years, born to affluent Imperial sympathizers on Coruscant. She graduated from the academy only a few months ago, full honors, valedictorian, glowing recommendations, not a single demerit during her entire tenure.

In essence, she was the Armitage Hux of her class.

Huh. Not what he was expecting. At all.

The turbolift opened onto the bridge. Four minutes and twelve seconds early for alpha shift, Hux took a brief detour through the ready room in question. At least on paper, Stynnix hardly seemed the sort to lie to a superior officer, especially about something as ludicrous as floating furniture. Her health certificate was also pristine, though protocol dictated that any officer with neurological atypica be promptly quarantined and evaluated.

Better safe than sorry.

And even if Stynnix really did see a chair levitate, surely there was a logical explanation. After all, they were on a starship. In space. Probably an isolated malfunction in artificial gravity, easily rectified with a stern word to maintenance.

The ready room was quiet and deserted, save for a long table, half a dozen chairs, and that large viewport on the far wall. Visible through the window were several Resurgent-class Star Destroyers, the Finalizer included, all idling in orbit above Kerroc as the Supremacy underwent repairs.

Ah, how General Hux missed the Finalizer, his ship, his pride, home sweet home. Since the tragic loss of Starkiller Base, duty called him away from the old girl, into service on the Supremacy instead. As much as he coveted command of that dreadnought, relishing in her vast and titanic splendor, his heart of hearts forever belonged to the Finalizer.

Nostalgia, perhaps, for the familiar hum of her sublights, the rumble of her hyperdrive, the satisfying recoil of her cannons. And for simpler things too, creature comforts that the Supreme Leader forbid Hux from bringing aboard the Supremacy: non-regulation furniture, civilian clothes, tarine tea, his pet cat, his handpicked bridge crew. Though a few of the Finalizer's senior staff also transferred — Peavey, Phasma, Opan, Mitaka, Unamo, among others — it still wasn't the same.

Ever regimented, Hux allowed himself one last wistful look out the viewport, admiring his beloved battlecruiser from afar, then returned to the task at hand.

He switched on the ready room's lights, set his datapad on the tabletop, and examined each chair, one by one. All freely movable, no bolts to the floor. He selected a chair at random and knelt beside it, running his gloved hand under the seat. Nothing extraordinary.

In the silence, a sudden _thunk_ startled Hux. He scrambled to his feet, searching for the source of the sound, only to find his datapad was no longer on the table. Odd, since he swore he put it down.

Hux crossed his arms, perplexed, mildly irritated, before realizing— 

His datapad was on the ground. In a far corner. Clear across the ready room.

Shivers ran down his spine, an eerie apprehension.

Slowly, cautiously, Hux rounded the table to retrieve his datapad, baffled beyond measure. He examined the device, turning it over and over in his hands. Nothing unusual, no sabotage, certainly no cause for an inanimate object to hurl itself five meters through the air.

"What in the hell?" Hux glanced about the empty room again, as if he might find an answer written on the walls. And then his gaze fell upon a lone holocam, an innocuous black dome hanging from the ceiling.

He smirked. Bingo.

General Hux spun on his heels, charging from the ready room and onto the bridge. With a low hiss, the entry portal opened.

"Mitaka!" he barked, startling the overanxious lieutenant out of his wits.

"S-sorry, sir!" Mitaka was shaking. Arrival of the brass warranted an announcement. Standard operating procedure. "General on the bridge!"

"Yes, yes, we all know I'm on the bridge. Pull security footage from the ready room." Mitaka obeyed, and Hux peered over his shoulder as a grainy blue holovid appeared, timestamped as a live feed. "Rewind five minutes."

Onscreen, the recording played. Hux watched his holographic self enter the ready room, flip on the lights, and place his datapad on the table, nowhere near the edge. He walked a slow lap, then knelt next to a chair, inspecting it thoroughly. So far, nothing to write home about.

"What were you looking for, general?" Dopheld Mitaka, too curious for his own good. "Did you drop something?"

Hux ignored the query, focused not on his own holoimage, but instead on that unruly datapad. Any second now, it would fly off the table and across the room. How and why were yet to be determined, but all in due time.

"Beg your pardon, sir." Mitaka was trying his patience this morning. "Who was in the ready room with you?"

Still fixated on that unmoving datapad and unappreciative of distraction, Hux snapped. "No one."

"But there's another officer reflected in the viewport."

Hux startled, regrouped, shifted his attention. Ambient light hit the clear transparisteel at such an angle that it behaved like a mirror. The holovid clearly depicted a kneeling Hux, surrounded by a table and chairs, very much alone. But just as Mitaka said, reflected in the window— 

A man in uniform loomed behind him.

"Who the fuck— " Hux gaped. His heart lodged in his throat. "Pause the feed."

The holoimage froze, one person in the ready room, two reflected in the viewport. This mysterious apparition stood tall, broad-shouldered, overweight, fine features too pixelated to run through facial recognition. His tunic was olive green with a silver plaque on the left breast. Blue and red square pips.

Imperial, not First Order. Nobody had worn such regalia in decades.

This must be an optical illusion, surely a trick of the light. Or even more likely, a technical malfunction, superimposition of another holorecording, a different location on the ship, an earlier timestamp or old recruitment film from the archives of the Empire. Hux shoved Mitaka away from the console, punching in commands.

If you want something done right, do it yourself.

The vid resumed playing. And logical theories promptly flew out an airlock, since optical illusions cannot move objects. As a general rule.

While the holographic Hux knelt, preoccupied and completely oblivious, that anachronistic Imperial reached for his datapad, lifted it off the table, and flung it across the room with a savage overhand. This caused the loud _thunk_ which startled Hux into standing, searching, finding nothing but his personal effects on the floor in a far corner.

Because that disembodied reflection in the viewport had vanished. Poof. Gone.

Mitaka blanched, white as a sheet, glancing sidelong at Hux. "Sir, d-did we— did we just see a ghost?"

"Don't be absurd. Only junkers from the Western Reaches believe in ghosts." Highly educated citizens of the First Order don't subscribe to such nonsense, and nothing frustrated Hux more than that which he couldn't explain. "Rewind further, to the most recent delta shift."

Mitaka manned the keyboard again, skimming through footage until he stumbled upon something rather unorthodox. "Is that— " The lieutenant squinted at his monitor and took a moment to process what exactly they were watching. "Is that chair floating?"

It sure was, hovering midair, almost two meters off the ground for a solid minute before it came crashing down. Barely within frame were the doorway and corridor beyond, where a holographic Luscia Stynnix was unlucky enough to walk by that accursed ready room, do a wide-eyed doubletake at the flying furniture, and promptly flee in fear.

Good to know their comm officer wasn't actually delusional. Small blessings.

General Hux rubbed his temples. He felt a migraine coming on. "Alert maintenance." As if he didn't have enough problems, recent murders and political turmoil aside, now the Supremacy's most basic systems were on the fritz. What would go offline next: running water, climate control, life support? "Order a stat diagnostic on all Deck 1 holocams and grav generators. I want analysis complete within the hour, else somebody downstairs is fired."

Mitaka quirked his head. "If it's a grav glitch," he pondered, ever inquisitive, "then why aren’t all the chairs floating?"

Hux glared the dirtiest of dirty glares.

The lieutenant swallowed hard, mashing buttons on his console. "I'll just alert maintenance, shall I?"

But halfway through alpha shift, after a veritable army of fleet engineers found nothing wrong — no mechanical failures, no programming errors, not a single blip in output — Mitaka's admittedly valid question still gnawed at Hux, grating his ego, grinding his nerves.

For the sake of sanity, the general eventually resigned these strange events as an unsolved mystery and occupied himself with more pressing matters.

That is, until Petty Officer Thanisson returned from his meal break, sporting a most befuddled expression. "General Hux, may I disturb you?" He received a distracted huff of acknowledgment. "Did you authorize an artificial grav shutdown in the mess hall?"

Once engrossed in a schematic, Hux now stood ramrod straight. "I most certainly did not."

"Then I'll alert maintenance." Thanisson returned to his post in the crew pit, sipping caf. "The lunch tables are levitating." 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

After a week or so, the Resistance base settled back into some semblance of normalcy.

Or as normal as Poe's clusterfuck of a life could get, when marooned on a desolate mineral planet at the edge of known space.

Contrary to popular belief, Snoke's sudden death changed little for the galaxy at large. Poe hoped it might garner support from the Republic remnant, reignite a spark of rebellion, turn the bleak tide of a devastating war. Instead, the First Order spun this assassination into propaganda, a sleazy smear campaign to vilify the Knights of Ren, the Jedi, the Resistance.

And it worked.

"Anarchists!" splashed the headlines, biased as hell. "Populist zealots! Warmongers!" With or without Snoke, the First Order still controlled the media, the Core worlds, every major trade route, and untold riches from the Corporate Sector and InterGalactic Banking Clan. They'd yet to appoint a new Supreme Leader, but only a matter of time.

Meanwhile, the Resistance lingered in indefinite exile on Crait.

Hypothetically, even if they had enough flightworthy, hyperdrive-equipped transports to carry a hundred people — they didn't — and fuel sufficient to fly them — yeah, very funny — where would they go? Not a single port within fifty parsecs was Republic-friendly, and the closest civilized world was Naboo, which crawled with First Order industries, mining their spice moon for all it was worth.

As a pilot, Poe always assumed his death would be fast and fiery, shot down in a dogfight, nothing but a brilliant, blinding flash as he scattered into stardust. Quick, painless, over and done, no time to dwell. What he never envisioned was _this,_ meeting his end in brutally slow motion, staring months into an inevitable future of starvation and drought.

Never again would Poe set foot upon Yavin IV, his homeworld, with its dewy mornings and bountiful jungles and legendary sunrises. Never again would he climb the Force-sensitive tree behind his parents' cottage, on the farmette where he first learned to fly, where he grew up, where he was always happiest.

Never again would Poe see his father, the boisterous laughter and warm affection that was Kes Dameron. In the aftermath of the Hosnian Cataclysm, the fragmentary Republic maintained radio silence, too crippled to resist the First Order, too fearful of further retribution. Yavin itself languished under a months-long siege, and Kes had no way of knowing if his son died in the Battles of D'Qar or Crait or sometime between.

Poe reclined atop Black One's fuselage, lost in reverie, stirring only when BB-8 chirped impatiently from the ground below. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine, buddy." The little astromech warbled with skepticism. "I'm not moping. I'm just... bad at being idle."

There were only so many ways to keep busy on Crait, and Poe had already done them all, repeatedly. He explored the crystal caves with BB-8 and Chewbacca. He divvied rations in the mess hall and folded laundry and scrubbed salt off the refresher drains. He improvised new neuropressure techniques and recruited his squadron as unwitting guinea pigs. He helped Finn build a firing range in the west tunnel and shot targets until his trigger broke. He tinkered with starfighter engines and droid CPUs and blaster magazines, until Rose finally banished him from maintenance.

And most recently, for want of something more productive, a very grounded, very bored Poe sat atop his X-wing, counting stalactites in the main hanger, pondering his own mortality, and creeping on the elusive Knights of Ren. With their master discharged from medbay, those pompous pricks candidly refused to bunk in the barracks with Republican peasants. They retreated instead to that Upsilon-class command shuttle, parked near the blast doors, and kept mostly to themselves.

They slept there, never straying too far, emerging only to forage for food. And when called upon, their expert slicer — Qalar, was it? — made an occasional appearance in command central, assisting Resistance intelligence. The volume of invaluable data he stole from the Supremacy was insane.

General Hux picked the wrong kid to bully.

And yet, despite a tidal wave of new intel, the landlocked Resistance couldn't do anything except watch and wait. Surprise, surprise, but patience was not among Poe Dameron's virtues.

Someone whistled sharply, piercing the silence, echoing through the cavern. "Oi, captain."

BB-8 burst into frantic beeping. Poe bolted upright and damn near fell off his starfighter.

An unmasked Knight of Ren approached.

The darksider crossed the hanger with long, purposeful strides, an electro-whip slung across his back and black robes billowing behind him. At first glance, he looked human, save for a vibrant green tinge to his hair, his eyes, the tips of his ears. Maybe a little Twi'lek, somewhere along the line? He stopped a few meters shy of the airstairs, but Poe still moved one hand to his holster.

Force-sensitives needn't be near you to hurt you, and Poe's last encounter with a Knight of Ren ended with his brain bleeding out his ears.

"No need for that." Quirking a brow at Poe's blaster, the darksider folded his arms, clearly amused. "We've been on base for a week. If I wanted to kill you, why wait until now?"

Good point. Poe relaxed, but only a fraction. "Then what d'you want?"

The knight jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the command shuttle. "Sprung a coolant leak. I need a Harris wrench, among other things." He glanced toward an open toolkit, scattered about Black One's landing gear. "Figured you were the man to ask."

"Help yourself."

Disorganized was a very flattering descriptor for the total disaster area that was Poe's workspace. The darksider dug fruitlessly through a web of wires and mismatched drill bits until BB-8 came to his rescue, ever helpful, unburying a wrench from the bottom of the pile.

"Clever little droid." The knight smiled. Were the Knights of Ren even allowed to smile? "And if I were bonding tape, where might I live?"

BB-8 bleeped in excited binary. He loved tasks. <Friend Rose will have. I go find.>

The darksider bowed his head with gratitude, then pointed at his shuttle again. "Meet me over there when you get back?"

With a cheerful chirp, the astromech rolled off, whistling a Yavinese tune.

"You lucked out with that BB unit." The knight sighed. "Ours is an asshole."

Poe snorted. "Don't let the little guy fool you. Beebee has his moods, but then so do I." And since people who were polite to droids couldn't be all bad, he introduced himself. "Poe Dameron."

"I know who you are. Vacheads call you the Starkiller's Bane. Your droid, your ship, and your reputation precede you." The darksider chuckled to himself, approaching Black One, running a reverent hand along her S-foil. "Been a long time since I flew a classic T-70."

Poe brightened. "You're a pilot?" They shared something in common. Who knew. And it occurred to him— "When my squad helped yours escape the Supremacy, did you helm that command shuttle? Solid evasive maneuvers."

"Child's play. Shuttles practically fly themselves nowadays." The knight ducked underneath Black One, inspecting her chassis. "I trained on freighters and X-wings, ran drills at Skywalker's temple, but my mother taught me the basics when I was a kid."

That piqued Poe's interest. Here stood a rebel flyboy and a fallen Jedi, not so different as one might think. "I learned from my ma too. We used to joyride around Yavin in her old A-wing." Poe hopped down from the perch atop his starfighter, dusting off his fatigues. "What's your name?"

"Sedriss Ren."

Poe was having none of that. "Your real name."

Sedriss recoiled a bit, but came clean. "Jacen Syndulla." He whispered it, as if he ought not to. "I prefer Sedriss."

Fair enough, but Poe vaguely recognized that surname. Probably from his father's never-ending war stories. "I guess you mostly pilot shuttles and TIE fighters in the First Order — or did, anyway." Deathly curious, Poe had to ask. "Ever flown a Destroyer?"

"Just once," answered Sedriss. "The Finalizer. Now that there's a battlecruiser." He grinned at the memory. "Hux is rather choosy about who helms his ship, but Master Ren snuck me onto the bridge when our good general was planetside."

Poe barked a laugh. "Oh, I bet Gingerbell loved that."

"I'd never seen Hux so angry. Which says a lot." Sedriss continued to examine Black One, her chipping orange paint, her booster pod, her custom cannons and thrusters. "These retrofits are quality. You'd go hog wild in First Order R&D. It's candy land."

Poe crossed his arms, uneasy. "I heard you people do weird cybernetic experiments on prisoners." Flashbacks to his own capture came unbidden, that interrogation rack onboard the Finalizer and Ren's mind probe. "Before Finn rescued me, I thought for sure I'd end up a bionic zombie."

Sedriss took the accusation in stride. "Biotech's not as sinister as it sounds." Though he never actually denied that they tested it on prisoners, so that was... chilling. "Sienar-Jaemus just released prototypes for a new flight interface, which the pilot controls neurally."

"Neurally," parroted Poe. "As in, no more joysticks? No more control panels?" Sounded like mad science. Call him old-fashioned, but give Poe Dameron switchboards and circuits and a few good droids any day. "As in, plug my brain into the starfighter and off we trot?"

Sedriss shrugged. "Essentially."

"No way." Poe shook his head. "Count me out." That there was the prologue to a bad horror holo, where machines go rogue and conquer the galaxy. BB-8 loved those films, but they gave Poe the heebie-jeebies.

"Don't knock it until you try it." Sedriss collected the Harris wrench and slowly made his way back across the hanger to his command shuttle. "Beta tests were impressive. Reaction times reduced to nanoseconds, executing impossible hairpin turns, pinpoint firing accuracy."

Poe puffed with pride. "I already do that without your hoity-toity biotech."

Even still, Sedriss Ren left him something to chew on. "If you're already the best pilot in the galaxy _without_ a neural interface, then may the Force have mercy upon us all when you fly _with_ it."

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Rey needed a few hours alone.

Even from a kiloparsec away, her bond with Kylo Ren was uncommonly strong. Now they lived together on the same planet, on the same underground base, in the same cramped cavern, never more than a few hundred meters apart, and their connection took root like an invasive cancer.

When awake, it subjected Rey to a constant and ceaseless barrage of thoughts that weren't hers: Kylo's conflicted emotions, the turmoil of seeing his mother again, his rage and distrust of Master Luke. When asleep, she dreamed his dreams, his nightmares, his haunting memories of fear and inadequacy, of confusion and abandonment and abuse.

If the Force was testing her, Rey needed a reprieve. Just for one day.

So she stole away, through the crystal caves and onto a salt plateau, silencing her comlink, telling no one where she'd gone. Crait was barren and chilly, but blissfully quiet. With the Journal of the Whills in one hand, her quarterstaff in the other, Rey walked along the ridge for at least an hour, maybe two, and then sat upon a cliff to read.

No distance in the universe could truly silence a Force bond, but Rey seized upon these rare moments of solitude, centering herself with steady breaths, sealing off her mind to the raucous hurricane that was Kylo Ren. When that extrasensory door slammed shut, her bondmate briefly objected, a halfhearted pushback, the telltale ear-flick, curious where she was and what she was doing.

None of his damn business. Rey ignored him, fortifying her shields and opening her book.

She read the Journal every night before bed, every morning when she awoke, and any spare moments between, hoping and praying its ancient wisdom might leap off the pages and dub thee Rey Kenobi, a true and proper Jedi. She ought to memorize her histories. She ought to meditate, resisting the darkness inside her, rallying the light. She ought to be the unproblematic padawan that Luke Skywalker deserved.

But instead, Rey dwelled on Chapter 6, Verse 66 and its graphic depiction of essence transfer.

A morbid curiosity, inappropriate for a lightsider, for the descendant of Obi-Wan Kenobi. Horrifying things were fascinating things, but the study of such esoteric techniques was neither practical nor relevant anymore. Snoke's reign of terror was over, the intricacies of essence transfer rotting with him in hell, where evil things belong.

Even still, Rey reread the chapter. For posterity. And because she wanted to.

Well into the evening, she hid away on that plateau, crosslegged upon a boulder, hair frizzy from the dry wind, basking in blessed silence. As the Craitan sun set, she ignited her saber and read by laserlight. So impenetrable was the fortress of her mind, and so engrossed was she in the Journal, that Rey didn't even notice her own bondmate approach.

That is, until Kylo Ren cleared his throat behind her.

Spooked, brandishing her lightsaber, Rey nearly toppled off the rock, and her book thunked to the ground, spine up, pages splayed. "Force alive, don't sneak up on me like that!" She lowered her weapon and slapped a palm over her racing heart. "I almost stabbed you."

"No self-respecting Jedi gets snuck up on." Kylo chastised her. "Use the Force. Be vigilant. Think. What if I were somebody dangerous?"

Oh, the irony. Rey rolled her eyes. "What d'you want?"

"You shut me out."

An accusation, not an answer. She glared. Today was meant to be a Renless day. Avoiding him was the entire point of this little field trip. "And yet, here you are."

"Because it's cold. And getting dark. You turned off your comlink and left the base without telling anyone." Kylo crossed his arms under his cloak, that aquiline profile illuminated by the vibrant blue of her saber. Like it or not, he sounded an awful lot like his grumpy old Uncle Luke, especially when irked. Skywalkers will be Skywalkers. "And you haven't eaten all day. I can feel it."

Her stomach grumbled, right on cue, and their bond pulsed with worry.

The master of the Knights of Ren, the infamous Jedi killer, was _worried_ about her, enough to navigate the crystal caves and hike three kilometers uphill to a remote cliff in the middle of nowhere. Rey's frustration melted into disbelief. She was half flattered, half furious. Life would be so much simpler without his little displays of humanity. Life would be so much simpler without his dark pretty eyes.

Why couldn't the Force just let Rey hate Kylo Ren in peace?

She didn't apologize for disappearing, but did explain herself. He deserved that much. "I'll head back once I finish reading." Rey hopped down from her boulder and retrieved the Journal, dusting salt and red ochre off its cover. "Chapter 6, Verse 66."

"Again? Why?" Kylo jerked in surprise, almost imperceivable. "Snoke's dead, and essence transfer with him." Their bond thrummed, nauseous and uneasy. Not many people lived to tell about their active participation in the Tragedy of Darth Plagueis the Wise, and revisiting those memories made Kylo uncomfortable.

Rightfully so.

For that very reason, Rey carried on. If she goaded enough, maybe he would go away. "Academic interest." She flipped open the book, leafing through, once again employing her saber as a flashlight. "For example, essence transfer traditionally requires an organic host. But possession of inanimate objects is not unheard of, particularly those containing kyber crystals: the Muur talisman, the Massassi temples on Yavin IV— "

" —and anecdotal reports of a Jedi who evaded Order 66 via essence transfer of her soul into the mainframe of a Star Destroyer, which to this day still power their laser-based weapons with kyber crystals. I've read that story too." Kylo's patience wore thin. "But the Journal of the Whills is a religious text. Mostly fables, which the Jedi were foolish enough to interpret literally. And look where that got them."

Rey scowled. "Darth Plagueis was pretty damn literal." She had a very large, very literal scar on her thigh to prove it.

"Maybe so." Kylo took a step toward her, a single step, and Rey craned her neck to maintain eye contact. Stupidly tall man. "And yet Chapter 7, Verse 476 foretells the Chosen Jedi, who will bring balance to the Force, only to segue into a ridiculous Jedhan myth about the warring Gods of Chaos and Order, whose power combined can create and destroy stars."

"I'm familiar with the prophesy." She knew the Journal by heart, and that was a particularly colorful and eccentric verse. Once upon a time, Masters Windu and Yoda and Jinn thought that Anakin Skywalker might fulfill it. And look where that got them, indeed.

Kylo dripped with skepticism, brow raised, the very portrait of condescension. "Hate to burst your bubble, scavenger." He leaned in, conspiringly close. "But titans and gods and messiahs only exist in fairytales. Don't believe everything you read."

Rey huffed, slinging her staff over one shoulder, snuffing her lightsaber, tucking her book under her arm. If he wouldn't leave her be, then she'd find somewhere else to sit. "Why didn't I just leave you to die on the Supremacy?"

"Because you're a Kenobi." Kylo shrugged, argument won. "Helping the helpless is what Kenobis do."

With that, Rey finally lost it. "And in recompense, my grandfather wasted his entire life trying to make an honest Jedi out of your grandfather!" She unleashed her temper upon Kylo Ren, since he of all people couldn’t judge her for it. Luke would tell her to bury her feelings and be mindful of her thoughts. But that wasn't working.

It never had. It never would.

So she ranted while Kylo listened, still and unblinking. "Now everyone expects me to be the second coming of Obi-Wan. They expect me to right every wrong in this galaxy, to finish what he started." Rey shook her head, coming to terms with the truth. "They expect me to be luminous, transparent, a sunlit kriffing meadow, but instead I'm— I'm just _this._ "

Not light enough to be a Jedi, not dark enough to be a Sith. Nothing but a useless, drab gray nobody, a desert rat, a junker from the Western Reaches.

"I hate meditating. I bloody hate it." Rey finally admitted that to someone other than herself. "I've no patience. I'll never be as serene as Master Luke or as powerful as my grandfather."

"And neither will I," reminded Kylo, another disappointing heir to a great dynasty. "But we mustn't judge the first of the new against the last of the old."

When he wasn't being an arrogant asshole, her bondmate possessed a gruff, incisive sort of wisdom. And to be fair, he made a salient point.

Rey hugged the Journal of the Whills, clutching it close to her chest. "I'm not a Jedi. I'm not a Sith. I'm a time bomb." She was dangerous, a loose cannon with a faulty fuse, and her friends lived within the blast zone. "I can generate Force lightning, but I can’t control it. I split mountains and dreadnoughts in half when I'm angry, but I can't even levitate a pebble when I'm— "

"Your mastery of Force persuasion is unparalleled.”

Rey stopped, stared. Either she just suffered a minor stroke, or that was a compliment from Kylo Ren.

He scrambled to clarify, seeming even more surprised with himself than she was. "That technique— it's an art, lost on me, too nuanced for someone who wields the Force like a wrecking ball.” Kylo glanced sidelong. “Both Skywalker and Snoke tried and failed to teach it to me. I'm adept enough at mind probes, but those are sloppy, inelegant, nowhere near as effective as Force persuasion proper."

He said nothing else, but he didn't need to. Their bond spoke volumes.

In spite of herself, Rey cracked a smile. "Are you asking me to— " No way. No fucking way. She'd never let him live this down. She'd haunt him about this as a Force ghost. "Neither a Jedi master, nor a Sith lord could teach you to do a mind trick, but you think _I_ could?”

Kylo frowned. "Don't be prideful."

Not confirmation, not denial. "I'll be prideful when I deserve to be." They sat in silence for a long moment, until Rey realized she never actually said yes or no. Brand new territory. She'd always been the student, never the mentor, but then Force persuasion came naturally to Kenobis. "I'll try to teach you, if you like. I might be rubbish at it."

Something bright sparked in Kylo's eyes, a passion to learn, a scholar's curiosity, the keen mind that read voraciously and soaked up knowledge like a sponge.

"I wouldn't ask something for nothing." He licked his lips, folded his hands. "What shall I teach you in return?"

Rey ought to decline. Tutelage with a darksider spelled nothing but trouble, and if Luke found out, she'd be up shit creek. Reasonably so, Rey opened her mouth to refuse.

What came out instead was, "That paralysis thing you did to me on Takodana." She didn't know its name.

"Force stasis," supplied Kylo.

"Yes. That." Rey tried not to sound too eager, but the possibilities were endless. "I once tried to stop a blaster bolt midair. It deflected, but didn't freeze. I don't know what I did wrong."

What a thrill, to discuss training and strategy with someone who could relate. What a difference, to fear neither judgement nor scorn when she delved into her darker side. Rey wanted his input. She wanted his opinion. Loath to admit, but Kylo Ren had trained six very capable acolytes, all of whom would kill or die for their master.

He must be doing something right.

Kylo hummed thoughtfully. "Aurra struggles with that technique too."

"Really?" A comforting notion. Rey wasn't alone. She wasn't incompetent. She was just green. In their heyday, the Jedi raised padawans in groups for this exact reason, because isolation and loneliness did scary things to a sentient mind.

Though the Knights of Ren were far from ideal classmates, beggars can't be choosers.

Kylo rubbed his chin. "Does this base have a firing range?"

"Finn and Poe built one in the west mining tunnel."

Decision made, Kylo nodded. "We meet there tomorrow, 2100 hours. Bring a blaster. You'll practice Force stasis with my knights and Force persuasion with me." Before turning to leave, he bowed his head, Jedi style. Some habits never die. "Until your lesson, Master Kenobi."

"Until _your_ lesson." Rey bowed too, and dare she say it? You only live once. "Master Ren."

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Something very strange was happening onboard the Supremacy.

Captain Phasma was nigh unshakable. She'd seen and done things that would make hardened killers shit themselves. Years ago, when Hux bid her to eliminate his father quickly, quietly, nary a trace of evidence, she went above and beyond. Never before had he seen what the venom of a Parnassos beetle could do, but fat old Brendol deserved every second of unchecked agony, his body liquifying from the inside out.

General Hux could still smell the blood, still hear the screaming, still feel the sweet satisfaction. Immersion in bacta only prolonged the inevitable, and his father took three whole days to die.

Yet in Hux's humble opinion, Brendol got off easy: only three days of suffering in exchange for a hellish lifetime of abuse, inflicted upon his bastard son. Hux lost count of all the black eyes and broken noses, of the cigarra burns and slurred vitriol, especially heinous whenever his father cracked open the Savareen brandy.

Admiral Sloane took pity, did her best to protect him, but she couldn't be everywhere at once.

Wisely so, Armitage Hux bowed his head, bided his time, and endured. He grew from fragile boy to embittered man onboard the Eclipse, an Imperial starship hidden in the Unknown Regions. Ascending in rank with singleminded determination, he became the youngest general in military history, amassing power, prostrating before Snoke, awaiting an opportune moment to strike down his father.

Thirty years of patience. Thirty years of subjugation. Thirty years of Brendol Hux, ended at Phasma's ruthless hand.

Revenge long in coming. They got away with murder. Literally.

Hux owed Captain Phasma. He didn't like her, per se, since he didn't like anybody, but she did her job and did it well. She trained the finest stormtroopers in the galaxy. She obeyed protocol, followed orders, never rocked the boat.

Which is why, halfway through alpha shift, her unexpected hail to the Supremacy's bridge was so perplexing.

"Phasma to General Hux," came that unmistakable voice, raspy through the comlink and her helmet's vocoder. A moment later, the captain materialized as a bluish holoimage, fully armored with a cloak over one shoulder and blaster rifle in hand. "Request your assistance on the cargo deck. Immediately."

How odd. Hux was on duty until 1700 hours, at least. Short of a catastrophe, senior officers weren't to leave their posts. Phasma knew this. Hell, she wrote the First Order's standard operating procedure, _and_ the shift schedule, _and_ the on call list. Not to mention how few and far between were problems that the good captain couldn't handle herself.

"Clarify request," demanded General Hux.

Were she anyone else, he might've chewed her out. Hux was a titch busy: the Supreme Leader freshly dead, all thirteen high commanders clawing at each others' throats, the government an administrative shambles. What could possibly require such pressing attention, and in cargo of all random places?

Phasma shifted uneasily and stood silent for a little too long. "It's, uh— difficult to explain, sir." Almost ten years he'd known that woman, and she never once stuttered. She never once faltered. Nothing fazed her. Hux had a bad feeling about this. "There's an intruder in Cargo Bay 2."

A hush overtook the bridge. His stomach flip-flopped. The last saboteur to slip aboard their flagship was that vile little garbage picker from Jakku, who absconded with a high security prisoner, assassinated Snoke, and played Hux for a fool with her Jedi mind tricks. They couldn't afford another travesty, another inexcusable defeat. Not on his watch.

"Elaborate," snarled the general. "You suspect a Resistance agent?" He spat the R word like a filthy expletive.

"No, sir. The man I saw was elderly, overweight. He disappeared before I could apprehend him." Phasma sounded as confused as Hux felt, which did nothing to settle his nerves. "And he wore an old Imperial uniform. Blue and red square pips."

Halfway down the command walkway, Lieutenant Mitaka froze in his tracks, midstride, face drained of color. He and Hux locked eyes from across the bridge. That description sounded eerily familiar: a mysterious officer, appearing out of nowhere, wearing outdated military regalia, then vanishing without a trace. Not two days ago, they'd seen the exact same person on security footage from the ready room.

Hux schooled his voice. "What do you mean, he disappeared?"

"He— " Captain Phasma shook her head, at a loss. "He walked through a wall."

...

What.

Fuck this noise. Fuck levitating tables and flying datapads. Fuck floating chairs and Imperial apparitions and intractable insomnia. Here stood the Supremacy, a marvel of modern engineering, a mobile metropolis, and yet her most basic systems were on a bender. From faulty grav generators to rogue holoprojectors — consider, this incorporeal 'ghost' behaved an awful lot like a hologram — must Hux fix everything himself?

Enraged, he threw his code cylinders at Mitaka, then beelined for the exit. "Lieutenant, you have the bridge."

On duty or not, Hux would get to the bottom of this paranormal nonsense. And when he found the responsible party, heads would roll.

Travel from the dreadnought's command decks down to cargo took eleven minutes, fifty-eight seconds. As the turbolift doors hissed open, Phasma awaited him, standing at attention, still armed to the teeth. She was alone.

Good. Now they could speak privately.

The captain wasted no time, declaring immediately, "It was Brendol."

Hux hadn't taken more than three steps off the turbolift and was somehow more confused, more frustrated, and more furious than before. Arms crossed, he raised an eyebrow, wordless and unamused. In that moment, Phasma ought to count her lucky stars that the general had neither time, nor patience, nor appropriate paperwork to issue a death warrant.

But she stuck to her story, crazy as it sounded. "I saw an Imperial officer walk straight through a bulkhead in the cargo bay. I saw him as clearly as I see you now." Phasma was adamant. "I never forget a face. It was your father."

Out of habit, General Hux rubbed his temples, sporting the current record for longest and most unrelenting migraine. Never had one person so deserved a gallon of tarine tea, a narcotic hypospray, and a kriffing nap.

"My father," said Hux, punctuating each word, "is five years dead." Of all people, Phasma knew that better than anyone. "He dissolved in a bacta tank. I watched viscera melt out his nose."

"I swear on my life," insisted the captain. "I just saw Brendol Hux in Cargo Bay 2."

Far more likely it was a hologram, programmed in the image of Brendol Hux. Deceased officers still had personnel files, which meant someone with unfettered access to the Supremacy's mainframe was toying with them. And when that someone was caught, they would suffer in the most creative and cutthroat way, because Hux had long since evolved beyond rage and into an unsettled, seething despondency.

"When I asked you to send my father to hell," muttered the general, "Cargo Bay 2 isn't exactly what I meant."

Phasma led him to the bulkhead in question, and as with all things, Hux was methodical and systematic with his investigation. First, they searched the room itself for suspicious holoprojectors, finding none. Next, he examined the floor, walls, and supply crates near which the captain had seen this ghostly apparition. Again, nothing out of the ordinary.

With a gloved fist, Hux knocked on the bulkhead. It sounded hollow. "What's behind this?"

"Utilities." Phasma pointed to the square half-door, a few meters away. "Access hatch is there."

Say what you will about General Hux, but he was nothing if not thorough. Sighing with resignation, he doffed his gaberwool greatcoat, folding it neatly atop a crate. First Order uniforms were a bitch to dry-clean, and crawling through Jefferies tubes was so very far below his rank.

"I don't get paid enough for this," he griped, dropping to his hands and knees, slipping through the small hatch.

Slowed by bulky armor, Captain Phasma followed suit.

Once through, the Jefferies tube opened into a narrow hallway, dimly lit, lined with wires and circuit breakers and multicolored pipes. The ceiling was just high enough for Hux to stand, but Phasma had to crouch, especially given those extra few centimeters from her helm. A dreadnought the size of the Supremacy had kilometers upon kilometers of utility corridors, a vast and interconnecting web within her walls. Even a single sector of the ship would take hours, maybe days, to search on foot.

More efficient if they split up, and Hux said so.

A pregnant pause. "I must disagree, sir."

"Excuse me?" Out of character for the captain to refuse orders, but then again, Hux was traipsing about the cargo deck on a manhunt for his dead father. Today was already as madcap as days get. "We'll cover more ground separately, then rendezvous back here."

Phasma quirked her head. "Have you never watched a horror holo? The people who split up always die."

"Oh, for fuck's sake." Hux was so incredibly done. "Not you too."

The captain clutched her blaster tight to her chrome-covered chest. "You didn't see what I saw. It wasn't a hologram. It wasn't an illusion. It was Brendol."

Except the most groundbreaking part of this entire saga was General Hux _had_ seen what she saw, or something awfully similar: an Imperial officer who could appear and disappear at will, a disembodied man with the ability to float objects and walk through walls. Hux and Mitaka hadn't told a soul about that apparition in the ready room, and Phasma couldn't possibly have guessed, certainly not with accuracy enough to describe this man down to his uniform and pips.

The lieutenant's quivering question still echoed in his head. _"Sir, d-did we— did we just see a ghost?"_

Without warning, the overhead lights flickered.

Phasma snapped to attention, and Hux's hand flew instinctively to his holster. Star alive, they'd gotten twitchy.

"This is absurd." He dusted off his tunic, smoothed his pomade, composed himself. First Order generals fear neither fairytales nor bumps in the night. "The Supremacy is not haunted, because nothing anywhere is haunted, because ghosts. don't. exist."

The lights flickered again, on and off, ceaseless and dizzying. 

And then the hallway grew suddenly cold, inexplicably cold, cold enough to fog their breath with every exhale and condense water on the pipelines. Fine red hair prickled along his forearms, and Hux had the strangest, most foreboding feeling that they were being watched.

He'd officially lost it. Was this a psychotic break? Had sleep deprivation and stress finally taken their toll?

At wits' end, the general whipped out his comlink. "Hux to bridge." No response. He broadened the bio-hexacrypt frequency. "Hux to Mitaka. Climate control aberration around Cargo Bay 2, ambient temperature dropping. Do you copy?" Still nothing.

"I suggest we leave, sir." Captain Phasma took a step toward the access hatch. "Now."

As she moved aside, Hux had a much clearer view down the corridor, what with her towering height and silver armor out of the way. Eyes straining against the strobe lights, he glimpsed an unmistakably humanoid figure at the far end of the hall. Perhaps a maintenance tech, a fleet engineer? About bloody time somebody besides Hux did their job.

"You there," barked the general. "Identify yourself."

This mystery man said nothing, then charged straight for them.

Lightning quick, Hux drew his blaster, finger on the trigger. "Freeze or I'll shoot!"

Impervious, undaunted, the man kept coming, tall, broad-shouldered, overweight, face hidden in shadow. As he drew closer, details came into focus: an olive green tunic, matching cap, Imperial rank insignia. They'd finally found the manipulative imposter, had him cornered, and Hux was hellbent to catch him, dead or alive.

Preferably dead. Less red tape.

Amid the shouting, Phasma twisted around too, weapon primed, ready to fire. But the overhead lights cut out again, timing perfect, almost uncanny. For a long moment, the corridor went dark, bathing everything in the eerie red glow of emergency bulbs. Hux lost track of the Imperial.

That is, until: "General, BEHIND YOU!"

Hux spun about, gun leveled. The lights flashed on, briefly blinding.

And then he stood face to face with a dead man.

"Hello there, Armitage." Brendol Hux looked exactly as his son remembered, with wrinkles and a graying beard and soulless blue eyes.

Stunned beyond reckoning, the general dropped his blaster. It hit the floor with a clatter.

"You— " Hux stood paralyzed, gobsmacked. His father. His _deceased_ father. Impossible. "You're not real."

Brendol smiled his false smile, the one that promised shame and self-loathing and abuse. "I'm as real as you make me."

The apparition seized Hux by his wrist and torqued his elbow into an unnatural bend. Crying out in pain, the general struggled against this bruising grip and unnatural strength, suddenly feeling all of ten years old again. Naught but a boy at the mercy of his tyrannical father, and no Admiral Sloane to save him this time.

"Useless, weak-willed, baseborn brat." Brendol breathed hot on his face, laced with alcohol and cig smoke and disappointment. A familiar memory from childhood. Helpless little Armitage used to lock himself in closets and hide under beds whenever he smelled brandy. "I can break much worse than your arm now, boy."

Holograms do not breathe. Holograms emit no scent.

And holograms most certainly cannot attack.

Faster to recover, quick on the draw, Captain Phasma squeezed off two gunshots, aimed squarely at Brendol's head. But these blaster bolts whizzed through the apparition, no damage, no effect, except to graze so close to Hux that their heat scorched his ear and burnt holes in the pipes beyond.

Steam leaked out, flooding the corridor.

Overhead, the lights flickered again, illuminating cold, dead eyes that the general last saw through a bacta tank, mere minutes before venom melted Brendol Hux into slushy, organic ooze. A fitting death, poetic justice, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, mire to mire.

_"We are stronger than our fathers,"_ that Jedi from Jakku once said, strangely apropos. _"We'll make history while they rot in an unmarked grave."_

And enemy Rey Kenobi might be, but Hux rallied behind her words.

The apparition snarled and squeezed his arm, ever tighter. "Poison is a coward's weapon. I know you killed me."

"You bet your sadistic ass I killed you." Lip undrawn, Hux twitched his free wrist, unsheathing the monomolecular blade from its gauntlet, hidden up his sleeve. "And I'd do it again in a heartbeat." With no particular plan beyond murder, he flung his weight and thrust the dagger deep into Brendol's throat, a vicious uppercut.

Hux expected to slam into a solid body, to hear an aborted scream, a lifeless gurgle, to see blood splatter across the floor.

Instead, the general pitched forward and fell flat on his face.

That ghostly apparition had vanished as quickly as it came.

They were alone again. All went still and quiet in the utility corridor. Lights ceased to flicker. The temperature normalized. His hair no longer stood on end, and the steam began to dissipate. Phasma's metallic footsteps echoed in the hallway, and she helped Hux to stand. He was trembling. He couldn't flex his left elbow.

Was the bone broken? It might be broken. He ought to summon a medic, but how in hell would he log this injury report: malevolent poltergeist seeks revenge for patricide?

Ghosts don't exist.

They don't.

They _don't._

And yet, how else could a dead man assault him?

Still cradling his injured arm, monomolecular blade unfurled and bloodless, a very disheveled Hux locked eyes with Captain Phasma. At least, he presumed he did. As always, she wore that chrome helmet. "What in— " The general swallowed, catching his breath, then tried again. "What just happened?!"

"All due respect, sir." Phasma's voice was as shaken as he'd ever heard it. "I told you so."

Holograms cannot touch you. Holograms cannot hurt you.

This thing, whatever it was, could do both.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

In his bunk onboard the command shuttle, Kylo Ren lay wide awake, staring incessantly at a wall, counting rivets.

He couldn't sleep. He couldn't think. He couldn't function.

_Rey called me master._

Outwardly, a professional display of mutual respect: Master Kenobi to Master Ren, equals and opposites, light and dark. But they were alone when she said it, together on a Craitan cliffside at dusk. The stars flickered through a ruddy sunset, wind tousled her hair, flushing her cheeks, and the legacy saber illuminated her pretty white robes in fierce, fiery blue.

Rey was a vision, a venerated Jedi goddess like Bastila Shan and Meetra Surik, a legend told to younglings for generations.

And then she up and called Kylo master, plunging his lizard brain straight into the gutter.

Why was the most powerful lightsider in the galaxy also the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen? Unfair. Inconvenient. The Force was laughing at him. And this wasn't the first time Rey dangled a carrot in front of his nose, not by a long shot. Her brand of innuendo was subtle, inexperienced and immature, all bark and no bite, but at least somewhat deliberate.

_"No eligible bachelors on Jakku,"_ the scavenger once told him, sniggering like a schoolgirl.

_< You're... jealous.>_ She seemed surprised, curious maybe, but far from displeased.

And then there was that debacle in the TIE silencer. Kylo would rather not think about Rey in the TIE silencer, now or later or ever again. He'd rather not think about her snug in his cockpit, topgunning his starfighter, palming a joystick with natural finesse and wiggling on his lap while whimpering, verbatim, _"Oh, spoil me, baby."_

What even. Nobody was that naïve.

Or maybe she was. Kylo scrubbed a hand down his face, at a loss.

As a senator's son and padawan learner, the teenage Ben Solo was sheltered from all things vulgar and uncouth. He grew into manhood as self-denying and stoic and celibate as any proper Jedi. If willful and stubborn, he tried his damnedest to be good, even with Snoke's countermanding voice in his head.

And once in service to the First Order, little changed. Theirs was also an ascetic regime, cloistered, almost monastic, frowning upon fraternization, close friendships, anything that might compromise the loyalty of its soldiers. Even the tightknit bonds between the Knights of Ren were considered highly unorthodox, almost unnatural. Contrary to rumor, Imperials and Centrists and darksiders were far from sexual deviants.

Case in point, neither Kylo Ren nor Ben Solo had ever even kissed a girl.

In his defense, adolescence had been a little hectic: manifesting his Force powers, enduring Sith propaganda, fending off homicidal uncles, burning temples, falling to the dark side, training six murderous acolytes, etcetera. But what young man doesn't sneak his fair share of dirty holovids?

Not exactly a reliable source of educational information, but the phrase, "Oh, spoil me, baby," featured in more than a few.

Granted, though the scavenger was sweet-talking a starfighter at the time, his dick didn’t make that distinction. Certainly not after the eight days Kylo spent in purgatory, eight days condemned to a medically induced coma, eight days without eating, without shaving, without showering, without a lot of things.

Immediate survival obviously took precedent, but let's be real. Eight days without jerking it.

Inhumane. Kylo had never denied himself that long, not since the monumental discovery of his right hand at age fourteen. Coupled with an ingenious plan to lock himself in a confined space with Rey Kenobi bouncing in his lap, the return flight to Crait was abject humiliation at its finest.

Though speaking of naiveté, she honestly mistook his erection for a lightsaber hilt. That happened. And not in a cutesy coyness or mocking way. They shared a Force bond. He could hear her deepest secrets, her most private musings, and Rey genuinely, truly thought—

Shame faded into narcissism. His ego preened.

_She thinks I have a big cock._

And a week later, Rey called him master.

Kylo rolled over in bed, groaning his frustrations into a pillow. Was he being seduced? Is this what seduction felt like? If so, it was a lot more muddy and anxiety-inducing than holofilms made it out to be. He needed to spar, to meditate, to jog, to do literally anything except sit and stew over what ifs.

"Master Ren?" came a whisper from the bunk above, with a far more familiar and filial inflection to his title. Aurra peeped over the side, her auburn hair flopping over one shoulder in a sloppy braid. "You were tossing and turning again. Nightmares?"

Admitting the truth seemed unwise, so Kylo avoided it. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't." She sounded worried. "Q's not back yet. I was waiting up."

Kylo peered through the dark interior of the shuttle, dimly lit with red emergency bulbs and BB-9E's charging station. Sure enough, one of seven bunks was vacant.

"Is he still working in command central?" It was the middle of the kriffing night. Did nobody on this base ever sleep? A contagious disease, apparently. Kylo slid out of bed, careful not to disturb the other knights as he dressed and clipped his crossguard saber to his belt. "I'll go fetch him."

A suitable distraction, at the very least. He needed to think about something other than the scavenger girl.

"I should go instead," volunteered Aurra. "You ought to be resting, recovering."

"I'm not an invalid." And besides, Kylo still wasn't thrilled at the prospect of his acolytes wandering off alone, especially not at night. Yet another reason to collect Qalar himself. "Stay here. Go to sleep. I'll be back soon."

At this ungodly hour, his short walk from the main hanger was eerily quiet, and Resistance headquarters almost deserted, save for those unlucky ensigns saddled with a graveyard shift. In the pitch darkness of the Craitan underground, their monitors glowed an otherworldly blue, with shifting shadows cast upon the walls.

Dressed in black robes and silent as a ghost, Kylo slunk around a corner, unseen by the officers. If caught lurking about uninvited, a darksider wouldn't be welcome.

After a few more minutes of Force-guided searching, he found Qalar, safe and sound, seated at a console typically reserved for intelligence agents. Empty caf mugs littered his workspace. The youngest Knight of Ren was a notorious night owl, obsessive and compulsive once put to task, often forgetting to sleep or eat until his job got done. He wrote the spyware that sliced into the Supremacy, hijacking her holocams, her communications, her nav systems and crew manifest and troop movements.

A goldmine for espionage, but the rebels needed help with interpretation.

Nothing new for Qalar Ren. This was his natural habitat. Even before their defection, he spent hours upon hours alone at a computer, sequestered in First Order R&D.

Except he wasn't alone tonight. General Organa stood beside him.

Kylo froze in the doorway, still hidden under cover of darkness. His heart stopped, because those ornate Alderaanian braids, that signet ring, her iconic, highborn fashions were still painfully familiar, even after all these years. _"Mama,"_ came the unbidden instinct of a ten-year-old Ben Solo, who cried a river and threw a hellish tantrum and refused to speak to her for weeks after she shipped him off to Skywalker's temple.

Her son never wanted to be a Jedi, and to this day, he never quite forgave her.

And ever since Kylo's arrival on Crait, ever since his unfeeling rebuttal and vicious threats, both his mother and his uncle had given the darksiders a very wide berth. Smart move. Three living Skywalkers, together on the same planet, was already a colossal step forward.

Talking through their family feud — calmly, civilly, sans lightsabers or bloodshed or warfare — was asking a bit too much, a bit too soon.

Here and now, up went Kylo's mental shields, a defense mechanism to cloak his Force signature. So engrossed in their work, neither Qalar nor Organa noticed him; Kylo overheard their discussion and debate about an unusual incident onboard the Supremacy.

" —saw a chair levitate in the ready room." Qalar must've hacked into security feeds from the command decks and witnessed this firsthand. Clever slicer. He made his master proud. "Eighteen hours later, same thing with the mess hall tables. Hux wrote it off as a grav glitch."

The young knight shook his head, clearly disagreeing. He even played this strange footage for General Organa. Definitely odd, almost sinister. "Loss of artificial gravity should affect all objects, all people in the area." Her logic was sound. "Not just a few tables and chairs."

Qalar nodded. "Their internal investigation came up empty-handed, but I dug a little deeper. There _is_ a code corruption, one number repeating in triplicate, over and over, but it's not isolated to the grav generators." He punched a few commands into the console, lines upon lines of data streaming across his screen, too fast and too far away for Kylo to read. "See? Well hidden, buried deep, easy to miss, and behaving unlike any computer virus I've ever seen."

Kylo straightened, the Force skittering along his spine. Qalar knew everything there was to know about programming, every trick of the trade, forward, backward, upside down. He personally designed the operating systems and bio-hexacrypt ciphers on all First Order starships, the Supremacy included.

If Qalar Ren hadn't put it there, then that code shouldn't exist. And Kylo had a bad feeling about this.

"Source?" asked the Resistance general. Distracted and unthinking, her fingers drummed on the back of Qalar's chair, very close, too close to his vulnerable neck, vertebrae, jugular. Kylo burned with protective fire for his knight, his apprentice, for the only family who'd ever cared.

Were she not his mother, Kylo wouldn't hesitate to draw his saber.

Whereas were she Luke Skywalker, she'd already be dead.

Still oblivious to his master, Qalar scanned the readouts again, marveling, almost impressed. "Source unknown. Whoever installed it covered their tracks. But once I knew what to look for, that triplicated number started appearing everywhere, pervasive throughout the ship." He kept a list on his datapad, checking system by system. "It's already infiltrated the hyperdrive, airlocks, nav and communications, kyber and coaxium storage, weapons stations, climate control and life support, even the reactor core."

Organa raised a suspicious eyebrow at Qalar Ren, the dark side's sneakiest and most vindictive whiz kid. "You're neck-deep in the Supremacy's mainframe too." She gestured vaguely at his keyboard. "Promise you're not, uh— trolling them?"

Qalar raised both hands in mock surrender. "I'm all for making Hux's life miserable, and setting his artificial grav on a spin cycle totally sounds like something I'd do." He shook his head, earnest and pure. "But my current hack is read-only. Whoever's corrupting these codes is still onboard, hardwired into the ship."

"At present, the Resistance has no undercover agents." General Organa sat atop a nearby crate, coated in a fine film of salt dust. "If it's not you, and it's not us, then who is it?"

Qalar glanced sidelong. "For the record, I'd never sabotage life support, not even under orders. I'm a darksider, not a barbarian." He met the general's gaze, drawing a very definite line, daring her to challenge. "Two million people live on the Supremacy, and some of those junior officers are even younger than me."

Curious to a fault, Organa changed the subject. "How old are you?"

Qalar puffed. "Sixteen next month." But he quickly deflated again, looking sheepish. "I asked to go to Canto Bight for my name day, but Master Ren says I'm still too young to gamble, and casinos are a prison for affluent morons with nothing better to do."

General Organa choked on her laughter. "That's exactly what my brother told Ben when he turned sixteen."

Qalar rolled his eyes, the quintessential teenager. "Why am I not surprised?" Snotty little punk. Kylo would address such impudence later — though to be fair, he _did_ say that, and it _was_ plagiarized from his uncle. "You can take a Skywalker out of the Jedi, but not the Jedi out of a Skywalker."

Ouch, straight for the jugular.

But in retrospect, Kylo probably deserved that. His temper rarely extended to his knights, and never for very long. They were his entire world, all he had left in the galaxy. Qalar's cleverness, Aurra's courage, Caedus' raw passion. Janus' dry humor, Ulic's pragmatism, Sedriss' uncanny instincts. If Kylo drove away his acolytes and the scavenger made a habit of shutting their Force bond, then he'd be forever alone with nothing but his failures and mistakes.

Rey Kenobi and the Knights of Ren saved him in more ways than one.

Understanding of Qalar, if not empathetic, Organa smiled a matronly smile. "The bond between master and apprentice is familial, sacred. I never understood that, not truly, not until I saw Ben fret and fuss over you, over all his knights." In one fell swoop, she hit the nail on its head. "He's overbearing because he loves you."

As a darksider, Kylo ought to deny that, to deny feeling, to deny compassion for his underlings. But for what purpose, and to what end anymore? Snoke was dead, the Sith gone forever, and no one left to judge him for such weakness.

A liberating thought.

"Of course he loves us." Qalar sighed with resignation, turning back to his console. "Master Ren takes good care of us. We want for nothing."

"Spoiled rotten, indeed." General Organa teased him as only a mother could, gesturing about the drafty, dripping cave that was Resistance headquarters. "What more could you ungrateful urchins possibly ask for?"

That earned a laugh, full and bright. "Crait's not so bad. Sure, everything tastes like salt, and this computer is old enough to be my father." Qalar shrugged, typing commands into his keyboard, absently scrolling. "But I'd much rather be here with Master Ren than in the First Order without him."

Organa went silent for a full minute until, out of nowhere, "Thank you, Q."

"Uh— what for?" Her use of his nickname also came as a surprise, but Qalar rolled with it.

"For being there for my son. For rescuing him, and for aiding our cause, however fruitless." The general wore an unreadable expression, almost as though she were seeing Qalar for the very first time. She reached out, stroking his hair, tucking a blonde ringlet behind his ear, smoothing a wrinkle from his tunic. "I once resigned myself never to have grandbabies. But in a way, I suppose I have six."

Still a fly on the wall, Kylo Ren became Ben Solo again, if only for an instant. He remembered holidays on Chandrila, when his mother took a rare day off work and played with him in the snow. He remembered his very first Senate hearing, glowing with pride to watch Leia Organa of Alderaan in her element, owning that podium with eloquent and enlightened and passionate rhetoric.

"That's my ma," whispered his seven-year-old self to the stranger sitting beside him.

The kindly old senator from Naboo had smiled. "Yes, your highness." He must've been another Populist, his political platform aligned with Organa's, because he mussed Ben's hair and pinched his nose, deeply affectionate. "Everyone knows the Princess of Alderaan."

Over two decades later, in a salt cave on a forgotten planet at the edge of nowhere, history repeated itself. General Organa fondly ruffled the hair of another young man, another prodigy with big shoes to fill. Darksider though Qalar might be, she treated him with gentility, with respect. If anyone else dared to touch a Knight of Ren, they'd be short a hand, maybe even a head, but Kylo sensed no danger, no duplicity, no ill will from his mother.

His acolytes were safe in her keeping. _Six grandchildren._ His knights, her grandbabies.

A strange sentiment, for sure, but not wholly inaccurate. This galaxy had seen family dynamics far stranger.

And for the first time since their planetfall on Crait, since Skywalker presumed to call Qalar 'padawan,' Kylo finally lowered his guard. Unlike his subversive uncle, Organa had no ulterior motive, no designs to corrupt or convert his acolytes, no bias beyond her fanatical belief in democracy and obligatory hatred for the First Order.

His mother possessed all the strengths of a Jedi, yet none of their dogma, and Kylo gave exactly zero fucks about politics. Let the First Order burn and the New Republic rise again, let the Populists and Centrists tear each other to shreds, let the galaxy descend into anarchy for all he cared, but leave the Knights of Ren out of it.

In a motion of goodwill, Kylo dropped his shields, Force signature blazing like a beacon.

Sensing him now, loud and clear, both Qalar and Organa jerked with surprise, twisting around. "Ben." His mother stood abruptly and took an impulsive step forward before stopping herself, gifting him space, respecting his boundaries in a way Luke Skywalker and Han Solo never did. "It's late, sweetheart. You ought to be sleeping. You're still healing."

"I'll rest easier with all my acolytes accounted for." Eager for a quick and painless exit, keeping angst at a bare minimum, Kylo beckoned to his youngest knight. "Come along, Qalar. We're going back to the shuttle. Now."

Qalar objected, as he always did. "But we've so much work to do, so much data to analyze." Always ready and waiting with excuses to delay sleep, to forgo meals, to survive off nothing but caf and a HoloNet connection. "And that triplicated code corruption is still actively spreading throughout the Supremacy's mainframe— "

"A mystery to be solved in the morning." Ever diplomatic, General Organa set him straight. "Mind your master."

Two against one, Qalar slumped his shoulders in defeat, muttering indignantly. "Don't blame me if we wake tomorrow and the First Order's entire database is effaced by the number six."

Once again, Kylo froze in the doorway. His soul filled with dread. "The number six?"

"The number six, repeating in triplicate." Blissfully unaware of its significance, Qalar shrugged, pointing at the main monitor. "I can't make heads or tails of a source code, and it's already infected the override controls for every system on the Supremacy, life support included."

Heart pounding, limbs heavy, Kylo inched closer to the screen, and his blood turned to solid ice.

666 666 666 666 666 666 666 666  
666 666 666 666 666 666 666 666  
666 666 666 666 666 666 666 666  


~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Rey knew that undead fucker would come back. She just knew it.

Snoke, Darth Plagueis, whoever he was, however you name the immortal soul of a Sith lord. For millennia he endured, maybe longer, older than civilization, perhaps even older than the galaxy itself. Sapping soul after soul, stealing body after body, he cheated death and lived a thousand lifetimes too many, with countless titles, under countless guises, always sowing destruction in his wake.

A monster beyond darkness, beyond light, beyond the Force. Plagueis was evil incarnate.

Rey thought she killed him, hoped she killed him, but then so did many others.

He always came back.

On what quickly evolved into the worst night of her life, it was Kylo's panic that first woke her, a loud if unintentional cry for help. No ear-flick, no tangible words, just palpable and potent fear, screaming through their bond like an electric current. Kylo Ren was scared for himself, for his acolytes, for his mother. He felt lost, confused, incredibly alone.

Startled from sleep, Rey bolted upright in her bunk, consumed with the utter certainty that her bondmate needed her.

Right. kriffing. now.

And not a minute later, when she sprinted full tilt into command central, saber ignited, wearing naught but a sleep shift and mismatched boots, Kylo didn't even have the common curtesy to look surprised. Whenever he called, Rey Kenobi was always there, armed and waiting to bail him out of the next crisis.

Spoiled, unappreciative man. How had he survived his first thirty years without her?

On the other hand, everyone else — General Organa, Qalar Ren, the officers on night shift — were quite shocked to see a pajama-clad Jedi padawan, wielding a lightsaber in Resistance headquarters at zero dark thirty. In the otherwise quiet cave, they huddled around their respective consoles, sporting circles under their eyes, but not particularly alarmed or distressed.

"Master Kenobi?" came Leia's baffled greeting. "Are you all right?"

Nobody was hurt. Nothing was on fire. But as Rey deactivated her saber and locked eyes with Kylo, she knew something was terribly wrong. Wordless, ominous, he pointed at a nearby monitor, displaying raw data and real time codes from the Supremacy's mainframe.

Only when Rey drew close enough to read it did she finally understand.

666 666 666 666 666 666 666 666  
666 666 666 666 666 666 666 666  
666 666 666 666 666 666 666 666  


"Snoke. Darth Plagueis." She didn't know how, she didn't know why, only that this was him and his doing. It must be. Chapter 6, Verse 66, a number that haunted her dreams, the nightmare made real again. "He's alive."

General Organa took one look at Rey's expression and needed no further convincing.

She asked no questions, expressed no doubt, once again placed blind faith in Rey, in everything she stood for, in yet another Jedi named Kenobi. An alarm sounded, echoing through the Craitan caves, rousing the base into an uproar. Within minutes, the entire Resistance and all the Knights of Ren had assembled in command central, rumors already flying.

Upon arrival, Master Luke immediately sought out his sister, whispering in hushed, urgent tones, while the darksiders swarmed to Qalar and Kylo. Having rolled out of his bunk and come running, Poe Dameron sported bedhead to rival all bedhead, with the rest of Black Squadron in tow. Finn and Rose entered together, disheveled and blushing. She wore his shirt.

Intelligence officers also descended upon Qalar, who finally extricated himself from the throngs, stood upon his chair, stuck two fingers in his mouth, and whistled sharply. "Pay attention, sheeple!" Next, a quick debriefing. "We've reason to believe that Supreme Leader Snoke is still alive and onboard the Supremacy."

The room erupted with panic and objections and commentary, everyone talking over each other.

Janus Ren eventually won out. "Kenobi obliterated Snoke. We saw his body, reduced to charcoal." He shook his head, disbelieving. "No one could survive that."

"His body died, yes." Rey knew this would happen. She just hoped it wouldn't. "But his soul lives."

"Lives where?!" Kylo was notorious for expressing fear through violence. Old habits.

Luke nodded, his thoughts exactly. "Snoke has no host. The essence transfer failed."

Obviously, it hadn't. He must've possessed someone else, a temporary vessel, an interim host, Force-sensitive or not. Anything with a pulse would suffice: some unsuspecting First Order officer, a fleet engineer, a Praetorian, even a stormtrooper. They were nothing but a means to an end, a meat vehicle through which Snoke could commandeer the ship in slow motion, unnoticed until it was too late.

Who though, and how? Rey didn't understand. At the moment of essence transfer, she and Kylo were the only other living things in that laboratory, within range of that infernal machine, deep in the bowels of the Supremacy—

The Supremacy.

Oh, gods. _The Supremacy._

Anything with a pulse would suffice, and maybe even a few things without.

A lightbulb switched on. Rey seized Kylo by his thick wrist. Her hand couldn't span its width, didn't even come close, but she squeezed tight enough to bruise. "Essence transfer into inanimate objects— "

" —especially those containing kyber crystals." Realization blazed through their bond.

As the last puzzle piece fell into place, Sedriss Ren confirmed what they already knew. "Ever since the dawn days of the Empire, kyber crystals have powered the laser-based weapons on all Star Destroyers."

Rey stared at the monitor, at lines upon lines of corrupted code, that triplicated six, parasitizing the dreadnought's mainframe, spreading toxic tendrils into astrogation and hyperdrive and atmo containment. This couldn't be real. This couldn't be happening.

Except it was. And it was all her fault.

"Snoke isn't _on_ the Supremacy." She'd never felt terror so boundless. "He _is_ the Supremacy."

Nobody else spoke. Nobody else understood.

Rey turned slowly to her commanding officers, to General Organa and Master Luke. "That dreadnought is possessed by the soul of Darth Plagueis."

It sounded like the plot of a bad horror holo. Except this was achingly real.

"Qalar. We need a timestamp." The master of the Knights of Ren was shaky, pitchy. Rey barely recognized his voice. "First appearance of the triplicated six?"

For a long minute, the only sound in command central was keystrokes. Everyone held their breath.

The console beeped, analysis complete. Qalar froze. "Seven days ago, concurrent with an electrical surge in the laboratory on Deck 66."

Shit.

Shit, shit, _shit!_

Pushed to the limit, Rey finally lost it, slamming her fists on the table, snarling with rage. The cavern itself shook. Dust plumed into the air. Caf mugs shattered. Everybody jumped, even Kylo. Usually he was the one throwing tantrums and breaking things with the Force. Without looking, Rey felt those dark eyes bore into her.

Frightened and youthful, Qalar tugged her sleeve. "I've found no indication that First Order high command knows anything about this. Even Hux is in the dark." He gestured vaguely at his computer. "It makes no sense. If Snoke's alive, why not tell his people?"

Only one reason Rey could think of. One ominous and homicidal reason.

"Because he doesn't need his people anymore," came her whispered reply. "And that which the Sith have no need for, they destroy." She had a very bad feeling about this. Her instincts were screaming, like sirens inside her skull. Light or dark or lost somewhere between, Rey was still a Kenobi, her grandfather’s granddaughter. "Why else would Snoke infiltrate life support, if not intent to kill?" 

Helping the helpless really was what Kenobis do best. Kylo had her number there.

"Millions of lives are at stake." Rey resolved to do what's right. Not what's popular, not what's easy. "We must warn the First Order."

Silence from the Resistance. Nothing but crickets. Her friends gaped as though Rey had finally lost what little remained of her mind.

"Warn them?" Poe Dameron spat in disgust. "Why?"

Rey rounded on him. "Because everyone on that dreadnought is at the mercy of Darth Plagueis!" She loved Poe with her whole being. She did. He was a good man with a gentle heart, a steady moral compass, Yavin's rebel spirit made flesh. Like Finn, like Rose, like Black Squadron and Leia and Luke, he planted both feet firmly on the light side of the Force.

But the light side wasn't enough. Not anymore.

Given unencumbered access to atmo containment and grav generators, Snoke could kill every soul aboard the Supremacy with a snap of his fingers. No matter how grand, how armored, how imposing, a starship was still a starship, operating in the deadly vacuum of space. He need only vent the oxygen, open the airlocks, or flood the atmosphere with reactor fumes.

Like shooting fish in a barrel.

"People are more important than politics." Morally ambiguous the situation might be, if Rey had to pick a favorite between the Sith and the First Order, she'd throw the First Order a parade. "We must warn them. What other choice is there?"

The freedom fighters shuffled in place, exchanging awkward glances, until Kylo Ren finally voiced what everyone else was thinking. "We could do nothing." A darksider at heart, he shrugged, noncommittal. "Wait, watch, and if they die, they die."

Rey floundered, utterly appalled. "Two million people live on that ship!"

"Two million citizens of the First Order, with whom we are at war." Poe crossed his arms, unyielding, gaze hardened. His parents raised him to kill fascists, and that's exactly what he'd do, soldier by soldier, until there were none left to kill. "Each and every one is an accomplice to the murder of billions of innocent Hosnians."

In desperation, Rey turned to Leia Organa, the greatest diplomat of her generation, militant only by bad luck and circumstance. "You know what the Sith are, what they're capable of. Hosnian and Alderaan were only the beginning."

That earned the general's attention, invoking her long-dead home, the memory of all she lost. Rey made her final appeal.

"Once the horror starts, it never stops. Snoke will ruin lives and destroy worlds." She pointed at the screen, at the stolen security footage, at the First Order officers going about their business, oblivious to danger. "Theirs first, then ours."

The blood of Alderaan endured forever in her heart, still hot and thick with mourning. And much to the chagrin of her son, her brother, the entire Resistance, the peacemonger in Leia overruled them. That, and her trust in Kenobis. "To warn the First Order, we must contact the First Order." Flushed with victory, Rey could've kissed her. Senator Amidala's daughter indeed. "How d'you propose we send a message, without Snoke intercepting it?"

Rey looked to Qalar Ren for such details. "Could you slice into a high commander's personal comlink?"

"Depends." Devious by nature, the darksider smiled a wicked smile. "Which high commander d'you have in mind?"

Rey steeled herself. Kylo wouldn't like this. Not one bit. "The man they call the Starkiller."

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

They waited until General Hux was alone.

Easier said than done, because that man operated on the bare minimum of sleep and spent inordinate lengths of time on the bridge, surrounded by dozens of crewmen. After a particularly grueling shift, Hux finally threw in the towel around 0200 hours, Galactic Standard. Via the holocams lining every corridor, Resistance intelligence could watch him, step by step: entering a turbolift, arriving on a residential deck, disappearing into an unmarked room.

"His quarters. We're clear," confirmed Kylo Ren, most familiar with the ship's layout. A beat, then he caught his mother's eye. "And for the record, this plan is even worse than attacking the Empire with nothing but blind faith and a couple of Ewoks."

Leia glanced sidelong at her son. "Excuse you, but who won the Battle of Endor?"

Unlike the stormtrooper barracks, officers' housing was privileged on a Star Destroyer, no video monitoring. And if the Resistance couldn't spy on Hux in the comfort of his own living room, then neither could anyone else. Snoke included. This window of opportunity was almost too perfect, if exceptionally narrow.

General Organa rested a hand on Qalar's shoulder. "Now or never." She squeezed gently, her signet ring glittering against his black tunic. "Let's give the First Order a curtesy call."

With a few keystrokes, Qalar rerouted a holoprojector to Hux's comlink, cloaking their Craitan coordinates.

It only beeped once before he answered, somewhat miffed. "This is Hux." Sans greatcoat, but still in uniform, his lifesized hologram appeared in Resistance headquarters. Even blue-tinged, he looked sallow and tired, rubbing his eyes, yawning. Never before had Rey noticed those fine freckles on the back of his neck. "Peavey's on call for emergencies."

All present looked to Leia, who nodded grimly. Now or never indeed.

"Hello again, general." They'd rehearsed these lines. "This is Rey Kenobi of the Jedi Order."

Were the situation not so dire, Hux's utter stupefaction might've been funny. He flailed, whirling about, tripping over his sofa, then grabbed the offending comlink and activated a two-way visual channel. From his vile expression alone, Rey knew the exact instant her holoimage materialized in his quarters.

"Jakku rat." Lip curled, gaze murderous. "This frequency's encrypted. How'd you access— "

Ignoring him, Rey forged on, speech memorized. "In recent days, you and your crew have experienced seemingly paranormal phenomena onboard the Supremacy." The general didn't admit it, but his wide eyes sure did. "Levitating objects. Electrical aberrations. Disembodied voices." She paused. "And if I venture a guess, perhaps even ghostly apparitions."

"How— " Hux vibrated with rage. "How can you possibly know that?!"

Rey answered his question with another. "D'you know why Snoke ordered you to anesthetize Kylo Ren and abduct him in the dead of night? D'you know why he forbid you to tell a soul?" Her own anger threatened to consume her. Rey summoned every scrap of Jedi discipline. "And have you any idea what that hellish laboratory on Deck 66 was for?"

"Some arcane dark side ritual." Hux shifted uncomfortably. "I didn't care for details."

"You should've," snapped Rey. "In aiding and abetting, you were accessory to essence transfer, an abhorrent Force technique that allows one person to parasitize another." Gross simplification of an extremely complex concept. She hadn't the patience to elaborate further. "Snoke is only the most recent mantle of an ageless Sith lord named Darth Plagueis. He groomed Ben Solo since infancy to serve as his next host, but I... interfered."

Rey conveniently left out that, at the eleventh hour, Snoke decided to hunt down a Kenobi instead of a Skywalker, and that delay cost him dearly. So technically, she did interfere, and what she told everyone was true. From a certain point of view.

"You _interfered?_ " General Hux snorted at her word choice. "You assassinated our Supreme Leader."

Rey bristled. "He tried to evict a man's soul and steal his body!"

"Ren's soul, Ren's body." Hux muttered under his breath. "Would've been an improvement."

This argument ran in pointless circles, precious seconds slipping away, and with them the lives of millions. What Rey wouldn't give for more time to explain, to convince, to negotiate. A Kenobi specialty, and a luxury they couldn't afford.

"Snoke is alive." She cut straight to the chase. "Or more accurately, the soul of Darth Plagueis is alive. He's lying in wait, hijacking the Supremacy through computer lockouts and system failures, seizing control deck by deck."

"Preposterous," seethed Hux. "Sith lord or not, the Supreme Leader is very dead. We jettisoned what little of his body you left behind." No remorse, no mourning, and he failed to mention a funeral. Of course, the First Order wouldn't waste resources on something so frivolous.

"I gain nothing from lying to you!" Practice and planning be damned, Rey went so far off script she was in the Rishi Maze. She wanted to scream, shake his shoulders, knock sense into that stubborn skull. Petty quarrels and mistrust were fruitless. If her warning went unheeded, then every soul aboard that flagship was a dead man walking.

Two million people. Maybe more.

Rey Kenobi was their only hope. Well, her and General fucking Hux. Odds weren't in their favor.

A vein throbbed at Hux's temple, and his hands were clenched into gloved fists. "If the Supreme Leader of the First Order were somewhere on this dreadnought," he snarled, "I'd bloody well notice. He doesn't exactly blend in."

Rey swallowed hard. Here it was, the final test of faith. "That's where things get complicated." May the Force be with her, as she offered truth and nothing less. "Snoke isn't _on_ the Supremacy. He _is_ the Supremacy."

A pin dropped.

Hux went from bewildered to fuming in the span of seconds. "That doesn't make any sense."

"I know," admitted Rey. But the Jedi Code decreed that once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. "Essence transfer is preferentially performed into a biological host, but it's also possible for the soul to possess inorganic objects, as small as a talisman or as large as a Star Destroyer."

Hux blinked once, twice, absorbing this. "You think this ship is _possessed._ "

Not precisely, but point made. "Yes."

"By the parasitic soul of a Sith lord."

"Yes."

General Hux steepled his fingers, cold eyes igniting with hateful fire. "Tell me, exactly how gullible does the Resistance think I am?"

"Wha— no, no, this isn't a prank!" Rey scrambled. Godsdamn it, of course he'd assume that. Of course he would, especially after Poe's crank call during the Battle of D’Qar. "You and your people are in grave danger. I want to help you.” If only the general were Force-sensitive, then he'd feel her sincerity, know her motives were pure. "Please, let me help you."

Hux moved to terminate the comm. "You and your princess and your silver-tongued pilot can help yourselves into a rancor pit."

In a last-ditch effort, Rey shouted at the top of her lungs, "Your life support is compromised!"

That earned undivided attention. His thumb froze on the switch.

Seizing opportunity, Rey talked faster than she'd ever talked in her entire life. "Snoke has already infiltrated atmo generators and airlocks throughout the ship. Control codes are corrupted. No option to override. He covered his tracks, but the footprint's there. Check for yourself." She finally took a breath. "I'll wait."

Reeking of skepticism and muttering insults under his breath, Hux shook his head, rolled his eyes, and tapped a few commands into his datapad. The device beeped, low and ominous. Access denied. His brow furrowed. He tried again. Access denied. Once more. Access denied.

The general centered himself with a deep inhale, then another, before glaring daggers at Rey. "How did you notice this before we did?" His hackles raised, his temper boiled. "And how did you hack our firewalls using thirty-year-old equipment left rusting in a salt mine?!"

"Qalar Ren." Explanation enough. Given a HoloNet connection and some gumption, there was nothing that slicer couldn't do.

Hux set aside the datapad, feigning calm, but his jaw quivered. "Could be nothing. Program error. Software glitch."

"But it's not." Rey bled with worry. "You know it's not."

General Hux studied her, ever a man of science and reason and technology, grappling to make sense of this. "Yesterday in the cargo bay, I was— " Something in his bearing changed. The stress lines on his face smoothed out, and he touched his left elbow, wincing a bit. For a split second, Hux looked younger, somehow softer, more vulnerable. "I was attacked by my— by someone who's been dead for years."

Rey shook her head. "Whatever you saw, whoever you saw, it wasn't real. It was Snoke." Though comfort was in short supply, answers she had in spades. "He's disembodied, ingrained within the very heart of the Supremacy, watching your every move, torturing you with Force projections of your innermost fears."

Hux's eyes were his tell. Rey learned that now, watching a First Order general unravel, clinging to pride and logic, slowly, subtly coming to grips with this nightmarish reality. Everyone onboard that dreadnought was at the mercy of Darth Plagueis, who cared nothing for life, nothing for loyalty, nothing for anything except power. He couldn't be reasoned with. He couldn't be placated.

Armitage Hux was afraid, and Rey afraid for him.

"Trust your instincts. Protect your people," she urged. "And get your ass off that ship." Rey had done her part. The rest was up to Hux. "Godspeed, and may the Force be with you."

He was gonna need it.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Something was very wrong onboard the Supremacy.

General Hux represented one-thirteenth of First Order high command, affording him the highest level of security clearance. No data too classified, no files off limits. Launch codes, medical records, holocam footage, even the stormtroopers' pilot pinups were his to view, his to confiscate, his to modify.

And somehow, inexplicably, Hux was now locked out of the entire mainframe.

Inexcusable. Utterly absurd. In a self-righteous fury, Hux woke every maintenance tech on the roster at 0300 hours, Galactic Standard, demanding a rational explanation that didn't involve body-swapping Sith and esoteric space magic. What hokum. That conniving little Jedi was out of her Force-sensitive mind.

Nine times out of ten, the simplest answer was correct. A login error. A faulty passcode. Maybe even a defective datapad.

The Supremacy was not possessed. Snoke was Snoke. Dead was dead.

No essence transfer, no Darth Plagueis.

Leia Organa and her rebel circus had spent months in complete isolation, stranded at the Outer Rim, nothing else to do but scheme. And yet this is the story they chose to pitch? That the parasitic soul of a dark lord had latched onto the First Order flagship, a literal ghost in the machine, plotting a hostile takeover?

The Resistance must be well and truly desperate. Either that, or they'd started drinking Craitan saltwater.

Maintenance ran their diagnostics. General Hux awaited an explanation.

None came.

Turns out, Hux wasn't the only one locked out of the Supremacy's mainframe. They were all locked out. Everyone. A triplicated code corruption had rendered the ship's most basic and critical systems inaccessible: weapons' arrays, astrogation and sublights and hyperdrive, kyber and coaxium storage, grav and atmo generators, even climate control.

Surrounded by the most advanced technology in the galaxy, they couldn't even change the thermostat.

"I don't care how or why it happened." Hux hissed through his comlink, while a tech shit himself on the other end. "Fix it before I fix you."

The Supremacy was not possessed.

She wasn't.

But... what if she was?

_"Trust your instincts. Protect your people. And get your ass off that ship."_

The general cradled his left elbow, still tender and swollen where Brendol Hux had dislocated it. Brendol Hux. His father. His very deceased father. No code corruption could explain a dislocated joint. No computer glitch could explain an undead apparition. That scavenger girl called it a Force projection, another way for the disembodied Snoke to manipulate and control his people, to abuse their trust and extort their weaknesses, to enforce his will from beyond the grave.

In character, that's for sure. Wouldn't be the first time that the Supreme Leader landed Hux in medbay.

The general paced his quarters, awash with indecision. He hadn't eaten in two days. He hadn't slept in four. Paranoia consumed him. Pausing at his viewport, even the briefest glimpse of the Finalizer was comforting. From several hundred kilometers away, hovering above Kerroc's north pole, all thirty Resurgent-class battlecruisers looked like dainty silver arrowheads.

Hux touched the transparisteel with a gloved hand, as if he might pluck the Finalizer from the sky and pull her closer.

His old girl, his beloved starship, near yet far. He'd forsaken her for the fortune and glory of Starkiller Base, for the pomp and circumstance of a dreadnought, for things bigger and supposedly better. But what Armitage Hux wouldn't give to stand upon the Finalizer's bridge again, to live and work amongst his handpicked officers, to rest in a familiar bed, to brew tarine tea every morning and enjoy it with an orange tabby purring on his lap.

What he wouldn't give to go home.

_"Trust your instincts. Protect your people. And get your ass off that ship."_

Hux clenched his jaw. He left the Finalizer at Snoke's behest, but now the Supreme Leader was dead. As a First Order high commander, he could transfer himself and his bridge crew off the Supremacy whenever he damn well pleased. Who would dare to stop him?

Mind made, Hux wrote a text-only comm to the other generals and admirals, as well as his senior staff, flagged as top priority.

_Urg. attn. || Officer reassignment_  
_Finalizer, Resurg.-class || Transfer effective immed._  
_Shuttle 10 || Bay 1, Sect. 4 || Depart 0500 GST_  
_A. Hux, Gen. || G. Phasma, Capt._  
_T. Opan, Capt. || D. Mitaka, Lieut._  
_P. Rodinon, Lieut. || R. Dormitz, Lieut._  
_A. Unamo, CPO || T. Thanisson, PO_

After a moment's hesitation, he added one more name to the list before hitting send.

_L. Stynnix, Lieut._

A fresh face. Honest, smart, and brave enough to contradict her superior officer with class and tact. Admirable. That took guts.

Within an hour, Hux arrived in the main hanger, datapad and small suitcase in tow. Already assembled were Captain Phasma and the rest of his chosen bridge crew, with a fueled and flight-ready command shuttle awaiting him. The general brimmed with pride.

_This_ is what he'd been missing: precision, efficiency, obedience. These men and women were the best and brightest in the First Order. Quality over quantity. Bigger was not always better.

A lesson hard learned.

Hux handed over his personal effects to Petty Officer Thanisson, who stowed them in the shuttle's cargo hold. "I've missed the Finalizer, sir." Thanisson had always been chatty. A forgivable flaw, given his competence and enthusiasm. "Glad to be going back."

"My sentiments exactly." As they boarded, Hux did a head count, coming up short. "Where's Mitaka?"

"With me."

General Hux spun on his heels to face a pompous, challenging scowl from now-Admiral Peavey. That antiquated old Imperial once served as the Finalizer's XO, where they frequently butted heads. This rivalry only escalated after his promotion. Hux found Peavey uncreative and dogmatic, a relic of the past. Peavey found Hux impulsive and green, a product of nepotism.

Behind the admiral stood Dopheld Mitaka, wringing his hands, looking even more anxious than usual.

Peavey elevated his chin. "You transferred Lieutenant Mitaka off the Supremacy without consulting me."

"I needn't consult anyone, least of all you." What nerve. Hux folded his arms behind his back. "Mitaka is a member of my senior staff. His place is on the Finalizer."

"Mitaka is the best gunner we've got. You know his accuracy stats as well as I do." Peavey planted himself firmly between the lieutenant and the command shuttle. "His place is on our flagship, and his commission to the navy. As such, he falls under my jurisdiction. Not yours."

Hux opened his mouth to argue, except that was... technically true.

"Sirs, if I may," peeped Mitaka. "I feel my skills are better suited to the Finalizer— "

"Nobody asked you," snapped Peavey.

The general saw red. Oh, hell no. Nobody talked to his crewmen like that, save Hux himself. Their eyes met over the admiral's shoulder. Demure and humble as ever, Mitaka had changed very little since the day Hux recruited him, direct from academy, sight unseen. At his commencement, everyone in the First Order heard rumors of the graduate with a perfect shooting average.

That boy never misses a bullseye, bragged his mentors. Not ever.

Three years later, his record was still pristine. While everybody else dicked around, firing like drunk madmen, Lieutenant Mitaka sniped down Poe Dameron in his stolen TIE fighter with a single volley. Poe fucking Dameron, the Starkiller's Bane, self-styled best pilot in the galaxy, sent careening into the Jakku desert.

Perhaps the Battle of D'Qar would've ended differently if the Fulminatrix had Mitaka at gunnery, smiting Black One on her initial approach. Unfortunately, he couldn't be everywhere at once.

A gut-wrenching intuition overcame Hux, faced with the very real possibility of leaving the lieutenant behind, of haggling for his transfer in committee for weeks. If they didn't leave the Supremacy together, right here, right now, then he'd never see Dopheld Mitaka again.

The general couldn't explain how he knew. He just did.

_"Trust your instincts. Protect your people. And get your ass off that ship."_

Hux approached Peavey, seething with contempt. "Something unnatural is aboard this dreadnought, and I'm leaving with my crew whether you like it or not." He beckoned to Mitaka, who scurried to his side. "I suggest you do the same, admiral."

Peavey was reasonably suspicious. "Is this an elaborate hoax to lure me away and claim the fleet for yourself?"

"That... sounds like something I'd do." Not a bad idea, actually. General Hux paused, calculating, then thought better of it. Enough backstabbing. Enough scheming. His new directive was to get himself, his senior staff, and the Finalizer as far from Kerroc as possible. "But this isn't about me. Not anymore."

Without preamble, without warning, the Supremacy jumped to all-out red alert.

Ambient lights off, sirens screeching, deflectors up, turbo lasers and ventral cannons hot. All around the main hanger, officers and stormtroopers and vacheads froze in place, bathed in red emergency bulbs, searching around in confusion.

As far as anyone knew, they weren't under attack. No shots fired at them. No enemy ships in the vicinity.

Mitaka covered his ears, shouting over the ruckus. "Maybe it's a drill?!"

Admiral Peavey glared at Hux, since everything was always his fault. Apparently. "Did you authorize this?"

"Of course not. I've been too busy wasting breath on you."

Simultaneously, both of their comlinks erupted with dozens of incoming calls.

"Ceasefire, ceasefire!" screamed one of many frantic voices, garbled through the airwaves. "Harbinger to Supremacy— "

"Fellfire to Supremacy— "

"Subjugator to Supremacy— "

"Retribution to Supremacy, immediate ceasefire!"

Hux startled, stopped, backpedaled. Their battlecruisers were taking fire? From where? He scrambled for his comm. "Hux to Retribution. Clarify message. Identify assailant." He was intensely confused. "Who's shooting at you?"

"The Supremacy!" came the answer that changed his life forever. "THE SUPREMACY!"

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The Supremacy was fucking possessed.

That little garbage picker was right.

She tried to warn him about Snoke, about Darth Plagueis, about everything. Essence transfer, Kenobi called it. In lieu of an organic host, the undead soul of a Sith lord sunk his fangs into their flagship instead, spreading through her mainframe like an infection, leeching into every system, slowly seizing control. Nobody noticed until it was already too late.

Snoke was the Supremacy. The Supremacy was Snoke.

The dreadnought was alive, conscious and sentient, acting without authorization. She'd opened fire on the First Order fleet. All thirty Resurgent-class Star Destroyers were in orbit of Kerroc. Their entire navy. Each and every battlecruiser. Sitting ducks. Ripe for the picking.

Before he died, Snoke had purposefully parked them there. This attack was premeditated.

"Hux to main engineering. Emergency shutdown, all weapons, stat." Panic rising, he adjusted the frequency on his comlink, thinking fast. If they pulled the plug, then Snoke wouldn't have guns to shoot with. Not a permanent solution, but enough to buy time, to rally troops, to evacuate. "Cut the power relays to kyber storage."

But their response was exactly as he feared. "Unable to comply, sir! We're still locked out of the mainframe," said a nameless tech through their staticky connection. "Turbo lasers and ventral cannons at maximum, firing spontaneously at the fleet. Gunnery not in control. Repeat, gunnery has no control of weap— " The voice fizzled and died.

From somewhere behind, Admiral Peavey spoke. "Hux?"

The general ignored him, whipping through comm channels.

Peavey repeated himself, somewhat disbelieving. "Commandant Hux?"

Hux froze. His heart stopped. He'd never been a commandant. That was his late father's rank.

He turned, slowly. Peavey wasn't even looking at General Hux anymore, instead staring past him, jaw agape. In the middle of their hanger bay, standing between them and the command shuttle, was a bearded man in outdated Imperial regalia, cap and pips and all.

He hadn't been there a second ago. He'd materialized from thin air.

"Brendol?" whispered Edrison Peavey, a contemporary of the elder Hux. "It— it can't be."

It wasn't. It was a Force projection, ghost-Brendol, an incorporeal puppet with Snoke pulling its strings. But no less jarring. And no less dangerous.

Treading carefully, General Hux muttered over his shoulder to Mitaka. "Run for the shuttle. Make for the Finalizer." The First Order itself was in mortal peril. All thirteen high commanders — himself included — were trapped aboard the Supremacy, unwitting hostages, an assassination in the making. "Assume command of the fleet and retreat with as many ships as you can."

Admiral Peavey didn't need to be told twice. He bolted.

But the lieutenant stood his ground. "I'm not leaving without you."

"Yes, you are. That's an order." No way in hell would Snoke let Hux escape this dreadnought without a throw down, but lower-ranking officers might slip away unnoticed. "Go. Now."

"No." What an inconvenient time for Mitaka to grow a backbone. A very polite one. "Sir."

Through shadows and redwash, the Force projection approached like a vengeful wraith. "You inspire such loyalty, Armitage. Soldiers admire you."

True only for the younger generation, new officers and fresh pilots and stormtroopers. General Hux was an undisputed favorite amongst his people. They liked his propaganda speeches, his vigor, his passion, his eloquence, his ruthless determination. A poster child for the First Order, and a welcome splash of copper-red in a sea of graying Imperials.

That in mind, ghost-Brendol sneered. "Let's make a martyr of you, shall we?"

An invisible hand grabbed Hux by his scruff, launching him backward, slamming him to the floor under a storage scaffold. Compliments of the Supreme Leader and Kylo Ren, he'd suffered enough Force attacks to know what they felt like.

Looming above, ghost-Brendol pinned Hux to the ground with a knee to his sternum and a hand squeezing his windpipe. Overhead, the scaffold began to buckle. Its rivets loosened, screws stripping, crossbars folding under pressure from the Force. Only a matter of seconds before it collapsed, so Hux stopped struggling.

It was all in vain anyway.

"Why are y-you doing this?!" he sputtered through the chokehold. "Why s-slaughter your own people?"

Hux didn't understand. Every demand Snoke ever made, the general obeyed. He rebuilt the First Order from the ashes of the Empire, conquered hundreds of worlds, fired the Starkiller and destroyed the Republic, served with fervor and lifelong dedication.

No matter how hard he tried, it wasn't enough. It was never enough. He rid himself of an abusive father only to suffer subjugation under Snoke. Hux was no fool. He heard the Supreme Leader whisper behind his back: rabid cur, mindless drone, raving psychopath. Convenient, exploitable, expendable.

_"Sith hold nothing sacred and repay loyalty with murder. He already treats you like shit."_

After thirty years, General Hux finally broke, posing a question long in coming. "What more do you want from me?"

The Force projection leaned closer, stinking of brandy. "I want you to die, Armitage."

An order Hux refused to heed. "Tell me why."

"Because there's still light in you." Insult delivered, ghost-Brendol vanished, and the scaffold came crashing down.

An avalanche of scrap metal and heavy machinery and supply crates, burying Hux alive. Free-falling debris slammed into his chest, knocking the wind from him, compressing his ribcage and slashing through skin and cracking bones. The pain was crucifying. He couldn't move, couldn't escape, couldn't breathe.

Hux might’ve died there, crushed under rubble, had Phasma and Mitaka not dug him out.

Amid total pandemonium, they dragged him across the hanger and up the shuttle's gangplank. Thanisson slammed it shut.

Sprawled on the cold metal floor, whole body hurting, Hux coughed dust from his lungs, trying to inhale. It burned like wildfire, an agonizing grind of bone on bone. Broken ribs, no doubt, with shrapnel lodged between. They'd torn through skin, maybe punctured something vital. Blood soaked his undershirt, sticky and hot, hidden beneath a dark uniform and greatcoat.

General Hux chose not to reveal the gravity of his injuries. A gut decision. His crewmen would worry unnecessarily, and he needed them focused, present, undistracted. This fight wasn't over. Not by a long shot.

Unamo helped him to his feet. "Was that— that man with the beard— "

"My father," croaked Hux, wincing with every step.

Captain Opan blinked. "Your father died five years ago."

The general waved him off, voice cracking. "I'll explain later."

"Look, sir, look!" Lieutenant Stynnix pointed through the forward viewport, a gaggle of officers crowding around her. "Something's happening out there."

Black dots marred his vision. Hux couldn't walk without limping or leaning on bulkheads. But for a few blissful moments of foolish naiveté, he thought this situation couldn't possibly get worse.

He thought wrong.

It was already worse. A lot worse.

Noxious green fumes poured from the Supremacy's ventilation and into her main hanger, slithering across the floor as a heavy, blanketing vapor. Oh, not good. Definitely not good. This caustic cloud enveloped everyone and everything. All exposed started coughing, then choking, then clutching their throats, gasping for breath.

Some crumpled to their knees. Others tried to run, but they'd nowhere to go.

At the sensor array, Captain Phasma ran a chemical analysis. "Dioxis gas, building to toxic levels in the atmo generators."

Dioxis was a normal component of reactor exhaust, but rapidly fatal if inhaled. Sienar-Jaemus designed all its ships, from starfighters to Star Destroyers, with a dozen failsafes to prevent such waste products from leeching into life support. Not that it mattered anymore. Snoke — no, Plagueis, always Plagueis — had overridden the safeties, rerouted the fume vents, and exchanged oxygen for poison.

Everyone onboard the Supremacy would be dead within minutes.

Rey Kenobi was telling the truth. _"After you serve his purpose, Snoke will burn the First Order down."_

That lethal green fog crept ever closer, lapping at the shuttle's hull. Hux fought an instinctive urge to hold his breath. "Airlocks secure?"

"Affirmative."

Cocooned inside the relative safety of a command shuttle, Hux and his senior staff were condemned to watch their fellow crewmen die. Mitaka and Thanisson and Stynnix took it particularly hard, aghast and overwrought, clinging to each other in horror. They'd recently graduated academy with many of the victims.

Trained from childhood, First Order officers were accustomed to causalities of war, to noble and necessary sacrifice, but nothing prepared them for this. Nothing prepared them for the Sith, for Darth Plagueis.

Nothing ever could.

Mitaka fixated upon those lifeless bodies littering the hanger, slowly asphyxiating. "Can't we help them, sir?" He sounded like a lost child, near to tears. "Can't we do something?"

"We can avenge them." General Hux was not a coddler, but he rested a hand on the lieutenant's shoulder, squeezing tight through his glove and Mitaka's tunic. That was all the comfort he could muster. "Dormitz," he bid his helmsman, "lay in a course for the Finalizer."

His starship, his first command, his home, his old girl. She orbited Kerroc, alongside the Supremacy and every other Resurgent-class battlecruiser. Per protocol, their defenses were down, deflectors and weapons and hyperdrives in hibernation to conserve coaxium. With the Republic gone and the Resistance grounded, the First Order fleet had nothing to fear.

Or so they'd assumed.

Because if you thought Snoke's butchery would cease here, then you haven't been paying attention.

Sublights engaged, the shuttle made liftoff, angular wings rising from a deadly plume of dioxis. Their escape came not a moment too soon, as the hanger sealed shut behind them, a portal beyond which there was no return. Because for the two million souls they left behind, swimming in toxic gas, that dreadnought had became a tomb.

En route to the Finalizer, distress calls flooded all frequencies, incoherent and garbled.

Through the static, Hux heard only dying screams, then silence.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Their command shuttle hurtled toward the Finalizer, evading cannons, dodging torpedoes, skidding into her hanger by the skin of their teeth.

Only a little too late, Lieutenant Dormitz deployed the airbrakes and pulled an emergency stop, more a controlled crash than a landing. Coming in hot, they bowled over a few TIE fighters, dented an AT-AT, and gouged a sizable rent in the floor. Stormtroopers scattered, fire alarms blared, and smoke engulfed them.

The shuttle ground to a halt eventually, oblique and cattywampus, her landing gear shorn off. Outside, the bay doors sealed with a thunderous slam, quaking under heavy fire and laser bombardment. The Finalizer had thrown up her shields, holding strong, but only just. Resurgent-class battlecruisers weren't designed to outgun or outlast a dreadnought.

They didn't need to. Traditionally, all Star Destroyers fought for the same side.

Until now.

Still inside the shuttle, General Hux clung to his armrests for a few seconds, rattled to the core and finding his bearings. The First Order was under attack. Snoke had hijacked the Supremacy, slaughtered her crew, and opened fire on their unsuspecting fleet.

Snoke, Darth Plagueis, a dark lord of the Sith.

From a neighboring chair, Mitaka glanced sidelong, wide-eyed, just as shaken. "O-orders, sir?"

"Hail for any other high commanders who escaped the flagship." Hux scarcely recognized his own voice. Talking hurt. Breathing hurt. And on top of everything, the crush injury to his ribcage was far more serious than he initially realized. Adrenaline dampened the pain, but only for so long. "We must coordinate a defensive strat— "

The Finalizer rattled under another vicious barrage, from a dreadnought twenty times her size. The old girl couldn't endure much more of this, and honestly, neither could her general. Under his greatcoat, through his tunic, covert and inconspicuous, Hux pressed a hand to his chest.

His glove came away wet, dripping with blood.

Still, he said nothing. No time for weakness. No time for hemorrhage.

Hux was needed on the bridge. He had to stand. He had to walk. And so he did.

Captain Phasma manned the shuttle's comlink. "Contact established with the Harbinger and Fellfire. No audio. Text only." She blazed through status reports. "Admiral Peavey and Major Stridan are still alive. They've engaged the Supremacy in standard attack formation, returning fire."

"Abort," snarled General Hux, legs shaky, supported by a nearby bulkhead. " _Abort!_ " Idiots. He was surrounded by idiots. An unorganized, half-assed counteroffensive against a dreadnought?! She'd wipe the walls with them. "All ships, fall back. Divert auxiliary power to deflectors."

Orders went out, and then came radio silence for what felt like an eternity. That is, until: "Roger that, from the Finalizer's helm." Glued to her console, Phasma scanned the readouts, but Hux knew his ship well enough to feel the whir of her engines, the kick of her sublights, a course change in progress. "Full reverse. Shields at maximum. We've broken orbit."

Out of weapons' range, for the time being, the Finalizer ceased to shudder and heave, and Hux waited to hear that other battlecruisers had followed suit. But confirmation never came. "Did Stridan and Peavey copy?"

"Affirmative."

A beat. "And?"

Even through her helmet's vocoder, Captain Phasma sounded sullen. "Still advancing. They refuse to retreat from battle."

Hux silently fumed. Very well. Let those prideful old Imperials die in a blaze of glory. "This isn't a battle. It's an execution."

Snoke betrayed them. He sabotaged the Supremacy, declared war upon the First Order, brutally murdered those most loyal to him. Now he sought to destroy their entire fleet, everything Hux dedicated his life and sold his soul to achieve. Before this, the general thought he knew what evil looked like: his father, the New Republic, the Jedi.

But he'd never met a Sith lord, never met such a monster as Darth Plagueis.

En route to the Finalizer's bridge, Hux was wobbly, lightheaded, short of breath, but fought for consciousness, tooth and nail. In a slow, relentless trickle, blood seeped under his tunic, tacky on his skin, soaking his undershirt. Dizziness came and went in waves, each worse than the last. But if Phasma or Mitaka or the others noticed, they knew better than to ask.

"General?" Panicky he might be, Lieutenant Mitaka was a familiar comfort, trusty and grounding, ever faithful. Hux appreciated that, what with the world crumbling around them. They stood shoulder to shoulder on the crowded turbolift, uncommonly close. "Are we going to die?"

"Maybe." Hux couldn't bring himself to lie anymore.

On the Supremacy, he was only one of many soldiers, many officers, many underlings for the Supreme Leader to use and abuse. But the Finalizer was his command, his kingdom, his domain, and General Hux would be damned if he didn't defend her to his last. Deep in his heart ignited a stubborn spark, a foreign feeling for the military man who worshipped law and protocol, obedience and duty.

At first, he knew no name for this newfound fire. Determination? Defiance?

No, something far worse.

Rebellion. Resistance.

He set his jaw. Desperate times, desperate measures. "But then again, lieutenant, I'm not quite ready to die." The entry portal hissed open, and General Hux stepped onto the bridge, his bridge with his crew on his battlecruiser. If Snoke wanted a war, then a war he shall have. "Are you?"

Mitaka shook his head. "Not today, sir."

The Finalizer was already at shipwide red alert. He assumed his battle station — gunnery, like old times — as did the other officers. Unamo at astrogation, Thanisson at security and defense, Opan at damage reporting, Phasma at sensor ops, Dormitz at the helm. A new fixture in communications was Lieutenant Stynnix, who looked at Hux with gratitude and trust and profound relief.

The general brushed past her, hurrying down the command walkway, disguising his limp. "Thanisson, report."

"Hull integrity compromised on the Harbinger, Fellfire, and Retribution, all adrift in decaying orbit." He summoned a blue holoimage of the battlefield above Kerroc, alight with cannonfire and explosive destruction, thirty Resurgent-class Star Destroyers floundering against a monolithic dreadnought. They looked like insects in the Supremacy's shadow, and she squashed them as such. "Reactor breaches imminent on the Subjugator and Silencer."

Stynnix juggled distress call after distress call. "Fifteen additional ships — sorry, seventeen... no, _twenty_ — have sustained catastrophic damage, atmosphere depressurizing, hyperdrives down. Currently launching escape pods, but taking heavy fire."

Five battlecruisers already destroyed, twenty more disabled. That was three-quarters of the First Order navy. They were losing, badly, and those pods deployed too far from Kerroc to make planetfall before the Supremacy picked them off. Hux knew because he'd played this game of cat and mouse before, months ago, when the Resistance abandoned ship and made their mad dash for Crait.

Karma, that bitch.

"Hail the escape pods. Tell them to turn about and make for the Finalizer." Hux wasn't being heroic. He was being pragmatic. Sienar-Jaemus and KDY could repair a Star Destroyer in weeks, but soldiers took two decades to train from infancy. "Once they've docked, prepare for a hyperspace ju— "

Their starship shuddered, groaning. Her sublight engines stalled, and all backward momentum stopped. "Tractor beam from the Supremacy, dragging us back into weapons' range!" cried Dormitz, cranking outputs to full throttle. "I can't break free!"

Furious beyond measure, Hux rounded upon Mitaka. "Blast that beam generator with an EM pulse!"

The dreadnought shook it off like a static spark. "No effect," said the lieutenant. "We're too small, sir."

Armitage Hux had always been the little guy, the underdog, the baseborn bastard. During his combatives at academy, Admiral Sloane intentionally enrolled him with the older, stronger cadets. They were three times his size and never went easy on anybody, much less a redhead pipsqueak from Arkanis.

> He was so angry at the admiral, so bitter, so betrayed. In hand-to-hand drills, she purposefully pitted Hux against boys and girls who could beat the snot out of him. Why would she do that? He thought Rae Sloane was different from his hardhearted father. He thought they were friends!
> 
> Nursing his third shiner in as many weeks, Hux finally lost his temper and confronted her after class. "It's not fair!" snarled his ten-year-old self, stomping his boot at an esteemed Imperial admiral. "I always lose to the big kids. I'm too small to outfight them!"
> 
> "Then don't outfight them." Sloane crossed her arms, quirking her brow in that 'took you long enough' look. "Outsmart them."

After that, everything changed. He never lost a match again. Not once.

General Hux would never be the biggest or strongest man in the room. He'd no physical prowess, no highborn birthrights, no talent in a cockpit, no sensitivity to the Force. But such things paled in comparison to military genius, to cunning and intellect, to the quick-thinking mastermind he'd become. Decades of training, years of experience, all boiled down to this moment, this battle, this one last chance.

They couldn't outfight the Supremacy. They had to outsmart her.

And yet, when brilliance and strategy were sorely needed, Hux had never felt more like a rabid cur, a cornered animal who sensed his impending doom. He was grievously injured, profusely bleeding, running on pure adrenaline and unbridled rage. Feral, desperate, reduced to survival instincts, fight or flight.

But they already tried to flee, now tangled in a tractor beam.

And they already tried to fight, only to be shot down, one by one, lambs at slaughter.

Hux had a sudden epiphany. Faced with his own mortality, what's a rabid cur to do?

Fight or flight, sure. And when all else fails, play dead.

General Hux whispered the wisdom of a Jedi. "Snoke isn't _on_ the Supremacy. He _is_ the Supremacy."

Almighty he might be, a bloodthirsty Sith who infested the First Order flagship like a parasite, but Snoke had no living body, no physical form, no eyes, no ears, seeing and hearing only what the ship's sensors showed him. Technology was powerful, but fallible. Technology was elegant, yet dupable. If Hux could fool the Supremacy, then he could fool Snoke.

Ballsy, yes. Dangerous, definitely. And just crazy enough to work.

Across the bridge, Phasma's voice carried. "We're back within firing ra— "

The ensuing blasts flung Hux into a nearby monitor, which cracked and shattered, slicing open his cheek, raining fragments of glass into his hair. Shouts erupted from the crew pit too, as ceiling panels cracked and caved. Lieutenant Mitaka pitched to his knees, still clinging to his console with rare determination.

Emergency sirens wailed. Damage reports flooded in.

"Hull compromise in medbay and the main hanger!"

"Nine of eleven sublights offline."

"Deflectors down to 30%!"

Once upon a time, Armitage Hux always lost to the big kids. But those days were over.

_"Don't outfight them. Outsmart them."_

Commence the military gamble of a lifetime.

Hux rounded upon his senior staff, his handpicked crew, setting a last-ditch effort in motion. "Thanisson, gradually lower the external shields to 5% and divert that extra power to reinforce the reactor core and the bridge." Despite a battlecruiser's countless bells and whistles, they needed only two things to escape alive: oxygen containment and a functional hyperdrive. Other systems were luxuries. "Make it look like our deflectors are failing faster than they really are."

If confused, the petty officer complied regardless.

The Finalizer was about to fake her own death.

An interstellar sleight of hand, and they had to make a damn convincing show of it. Sacrifice hull integrity, but only in noncritical sectors. Feign loss of life support, yet conserve just enough air to survive. Simulate a reactor breach, without actually blowing the ship to smithereens.

Fuck blood loss. Fuck impossible odds. General Hux had bullshitted his way out of tighter scrapes than this.

"Mitaka, stay sharp." The Supremacy filled their forward viewport, looming ever closer, like a leviathan ready to swallow them whole. Hux clenched his fists, stood his ground, staring down 60 kilometers of dreadnought. A rabid cur, says Snoke? How about an Arkanian hellhound. "As the next volley lands, surge and shut down the reactor, then purge half of our hypermatter coolant and vent atmosphere from the reserve bellows."

The lieutenant balked, face dirty with soot and bloodied from a gash across his head. "Repeat to confirm: orders are to overload our power grid, jettison reactor coolant, cut life support, and waste emergency oxygen?" He blinked in bafflement. "On purpose?"

On purpose indeed. "Trust me, Dopheld." They'd no other choice, between a rock and a hard place. The First Order would not go quietly into that good night. Not if General Hux had anything to say about it. "No matter where the next shot actually hits us, make it look fatal."

Mitaka swallowed, entering commands into his console, thumb on the trigger. "Aye, sir."

Phasma kept them appraised. "The Supremacy has locked ventral cannons on our reactor dome. Point-blank range."

Hux grabbed ahold of a nearby bulkhead. "Prepare to lose gravity. And brace for impact."

First a flash, brighter than the moment of creation.

Then a roar, loud enough to deafen.

The general must've passed out for a moment, because he woke to ringing in his ears and indescribable pain in his chest, floating weightless on a pitch black bridge. The only light came from outside, beyond those transparisteel windows, retroilluminated by the fiery wreckage of what was once the First Order fleet, crashing and burning into Kerroc's upper atmosphere.

Hux didn't need a status report to know the other Star Destroyers were gone, reduced to a blazing graveyard.

Snoke had stopped shooting. Why else would the killing stop, unless everyone was already dead?

Through the darkness, a chrome-covered hand groped around, seizing Hux by his uniform collar. "General? General!" Phasma's voice, ever mottled through her helm and vocoder. In zero grav, she bobbed beside him like a shiny silver cork. "Reactor shutdown complete. Structural integrity intact. We're adrift, but still flightworthy."

Best news of the day. They'd faked the Finalizer's death throws, and faked them well, appearing dead in the water when their ship was anything but. A success due, in no small part, to Mitaka's robotic precision. If they lived through this, that boy had earned himself one helluva promotion.

And speak of the devil, also free-floating nearby. "All systems temporarily offline, including deflectors and life support." Hux couldn't see the lieutenant — pardon, _Major_ Mitaka, if luck held — but recognized his accent. "Passively leaking atmo at 20 liters per second."

From several meters away, Thanisson piped up too, audibly nervous. "Calculating three minutes of available oxygen. Permission to reboot the reactor?" His request came with an unspoken and urgent coda, 'before we all suffocate and die in slow misery.'

"Negative," snapped Hux. "Delay reboot while within sensor range of the Supremacy."

A potentially fatal flaw in his otherwise ingenious plan. If they restarted the power grid too soon, this jig was up. If they restarted the power grid too late, they'd asphyxiate. For now, there was nothing to do but wait for Snoke and his possessed dreadnought to leave Kerroc. For now, there was nothing left to do but pray.

As a rule, General Hux did not pray.

Arkanians were an enlightened and progressive people who kept no gods, proudly free from religious shackles. He believed only in powers you could see and worshipped science, mathematics, history, order. But in this one infinite instant, amid a tactical leap of faith, ship adrift, shields down, engines offline, oxygen critical, void of gravity, Hux remembered what that idealistic fool of a Jedi once told him.

_"War has no winners, only survivors."_

Kenobi's gentle heart was liable to get her and everyone around her killed. But then again, that gentle heart was the only thing standing between Hux and a Sith lord.

_"Godspeed, and may the Force be with you."_

May the Force be with you. Witchcraft, the lot of it. Hux believed in the Force only because he'd been choked by the Force.

May the Force be with you. The Supremacy circled them, scanning the Finalizer, confirming what looked like a kill shot, a reactor breach, total systems shutdown with atmospheric decompression. No projected survivors, no escape pods launched. Any life signs wouldn't remain so for long.

May the Force be with you. Moment of truth. If his ruse failed, then this was how Armitage Hux would die.

The man they call the Starkiller closed his eyes and silently prayed his very first prayer, as bitter as his heart. _May the fucking Force be with us._

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Rey tried to warn them. She tried.

And millions were dead for her failure.

Horrifying enough that the Resistance watched it happen in real time, from halfway across the galaxy. Hands tied, jaws agape, pirated footage rolling on every monitor in command central, they had front row seats to the bloodiest naval battle in living memory. Kill shot after kill shot, the Supremacy tore into all thirty Resurgent-class Star Destroyers, decimating the entire First Order fleet.

The Harbinger, the Conqueror, the Absolution. The Silencer, the Subjugator, the Fellfire. The Retribution, the Finalizer, and all the rest, dead in the water like derelict ghost ships.

And worst of all, Rey didn't just watch their crews die. She felt them die.

She felt the exact instant that Snoke shut down life support on his flagship, poisoned the atmosphere with dioxis, asphyxiated two million people. She heard the screaming, a great disturbance in the Force, all those voices crying out in terror and suddenly silenced. Rey stumbled backward, collapsed against a bulkhead, palm clutching her chest, gasping for breath as though she were there.

So many souls gone, gone, just gone. But they didn't go quietly.

They suffered. They fought for their lives. They resisted a Sith lord, bravely, honorably. And in their final hour, in those last moments, the First Order became rebels too. Enemies they once were, but at the end those lines blurred, and Rey firmly believed in prayer for fallen martyrs.

_The Force will be with you. Always._

Soon came the fallout, as the Resistance base descended into total anarchy. Swarms of officers and intelligence agents and Knights of Ren sprinted between consoles, intercepting transmissions, combing the HoloNet for reliable information, tracking the Supremacy as she fled Kerroc and vanished into wild space within minutes of the massacre.

Governments were in upheaval. First Order high command no longer existed. Cue transgalactic chaos.

Millions were dead. Millions. What they just witnessed wasn't a battle. It was an execution. Rey should've done more. She was a Jedi, and what good were Jedi except to defeat Sith? Like so many before her, darksiders and lightsiders alike, she tried to kill Snoke, tried to kill Darth Plagueis. She _did_ kill him.

But when Rey struck him down, he became more powerful than anyone could possibly imagine.

Guilt consumed her. Rey made herself scarce, quietly crying, slumping to the dirt floor, hugging her knees in a corner.

Through the shock and horror and crushing regret, she felt Kylo's presence before she saw his shadow loom overhead. At eye level were his enormous black boots, stained red with Craitan ochre.

"I don't understand." His question was gentle, not chiding. He dipped cautiously into their bond. "Those were First Order causalities. Why waste tears on your enemy?"

Rey glared upward, lip curling, rage unchecked. "Because life is precious, you insensitive git. I don't care about politics or species or which uniform you wear. Snoke is a coldblooded murderer. I tried to stop him, and instead gave him the power to slaughter millions." She sniffed, wiping her nose on her arm wrap. "He uses people and throws them away like garbage. I hate him. I _hate_ him!"

Hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Purple static sparked between her fingers, and Rey clenched both fists, squashing her feelings, grappling for control. Force lightning. In an emotional tempest, she could generate Force lightning. But she didn't want to hurt anyone. She'd hurt enough people already.

<Maybe I’m the monster.>

Rey didn't expect comfort. She didn't expect Kylo Ren to flop onto the floor beside her, cross those ungainly long legs, and wrap an arm around her shoulders. "I hate him too." Kylo sidled up, huge in comparison, warm and solid and real, their bond singing. "And you're not a monster."

How long they sat like that was anyone's guess. Rey leaned into him, arms and legs curled into an angry, teary-eyed ball of Jedi padawan. Around them, command central swirled with activity, and nobody even noticed the two Force-sensitives huddled in a far corner, black robes mingled with white, darkness cradling light.

Hours passed. Rey stopped crying. She'd no more tears left.

A few more hours. Kylo fell into a half slumber, head bobbing, arm slack about her.

And around 2300 hours, Crait Local, an air raid siren blared.

Rey and Kylo launched to their feet, hands to sabers, as Kaydel Ko Connix sprinted into command central, full tilt, skidding to a stop. "A battlecruiser— " She huffed and puffed, out of breath. "A battlecruiser just dropped out of hyperspace. Holding in low orbit."

Gasps and fearful cries echoed through the room. Their base couldn't withstand another siege. The caves were unstable, and the blast doors corroded. They'd no means of escape.

Leia steeled herself. "Is it the Supremacy?"

It must be. According to intel, according to news outlets, according to every headline across the HoloNet, no other Star Destroyers survived the purge. Snoke slaughtered the people who called him Supreme Leader, left nothing behind but debris and dead bodies. Thirty ships engaged the Supremacy, and thirty foundered.

Now with a dreadnought at their doorstep, the Resistance stared down the barrel of that very same gun, and any glimmer of hope to leave Crait alive faded into fanciful delusion.

But then again, the Force works in mysterious ways, through the most unlikely people.

"Negative, general. Not the Supremacy." Kaydel shook her head, incredulous. "Resurgent-class."

Rey jerked with surprise. Impossible. She stared at Kylo Ren, and Kylo Ren stared at her. As of eight hours ago, Resurgent-class Star Destroyers were extinct, leaving no ship in the galaxy large enough or strong enough to challenge the Supremacy, and no military commander clever enough to outsmart a Sith lord.

Unless—

A console beeped. Everybody balked at that blinking red light. It chirped once, twice, three more times before Poe Dameron hurried over.

"They're hailing us." He opened the channel. A comm signature flashed onscreen. "Unbelievable. It's the fucking Finalizer."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honest writer question: towards the end, anyone feel anxiety about whether Hux and Co. were 'major characters' enough to have plot armor?? If so, mission accomplished. If not, well I tried. Special shoutout to the fabulous and ever-growing Gingerpilot fandom, especially beta reader [mob-lake](https://mob-lake.tumblr.com), whose enthusiasm and expertise made those First Order scenes come alive.
> 
> Musical inspiration for Hux's big 'save the universe with a kettle and some string' moment from [the Eleventh Doctor's theme](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K7VmOZ4Ppj8). For full effect, listen to it while reading the Epic Space Battle. :)
> 
> For background reading, the Wookieepedia articles on [essence transfer](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Transfer_essence) and the Jedi knight [Callista Ming](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Callista_Ming), who served as inspiration for Snoke possessing the Supremacy. 
> 
> Please join me on [Tumblr](http://praemonitor.tumblr.com), where we proud multishippers can sit together on the sidelines, eating popcorn. Happy Star Wars!


	4. Scum and Villainy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays, Star Wars fam! Thank you all for your amazing support, encouragement, and patience. Picture me trying and failing to contain my excitement, because here is THE minisode I've wanted to write ever since starting this fic.
> 
> For those interested, background reading on the Mandalorian royal family. [Korkie Kryze](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Korkie_Kryze) was the (alleged) nephew of [Duchess Satine](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Satine_Kryze), which implies her only known sibling ([Bo-Katan](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Bo-Katan_Kryze)) must be his mother. However, this is **canonically incorrect** , as both Kryze sisters claim to be his aunt. Korkie thus becomes the Jon Snow of Star Wars: mystery surrounding his true parentage may represent **purposeful misinformation** perpetuated by Clan Kryze because… #spoilers.
> 
> **Featured Ships of Minisode IV**  
>  \- strong T-rated Reylo, mostly unresolved sexual tension  
> \- finally, S.S. Gingerpilot sets sail (i.e. enemies to friends to lovers)
> 
> **Content Warnings for Minisode IV**  
>  \- medical gore and procedures (specifically, a blood transfusion)  
> \- historical mention of Hux's first sexual experience (consensual but unpleasant)  
> \- use of the word 'suicide,' as in a suicide mission  
> \- **[ Minisode Spoiler ]** flashback to Hux's mother, killed in a bombing

**Minisode IV:**  
**Scum and Villainy**

Against impossible odds, the Finalizer endured.

Rey didn't understand how, but she didn't much care. According to every source, every news outlet, every scrap of intel, that battlecruiser sustained fatal and irrevocable damage during the Massacre at Kerroc.

Reactor breached. Hull integrity compromised. Sublights down. Hyperdrive offline. Imminent life support failure. Among thirty Resurgent-class starships, the Finalizer held out the longest, but in the end Snoke bested her too.

The Supremacy did a full sensor sweep. Core overload detected. Atmosphere depressurizing. Kill confirmed with 99.97% confidence.

Spyware embedded deep, the Resistance sliced the holocam footage, witnessed the carnage, analyzed the data. No escape pods launched. No survivors.

When the Sith wage war, they take no prisoners.

Yet here stood the Finalizer, decidedly not dead, battered but flightworthy, in stable orbit above Crait.

And hailing the rebel base. Repeatedly.

Poe Dameron answered. In retrospect, maybe not the warmest welcome. "Hiya, Hugs." No impulse control in that pilot. "Rough day?"

The response came with a sour Arkanian accent, instantly recognizable from his propaganda speeches. "I consent to speak to anyone in your loathsome organization,  _literally_ anyone." General Hux choked through the static, connection iffy. "Except that fucking flyboy with the orange droid."

Mischief managed, Poe surrendered the comm to Leia. "It's for you."

"Organa here. Status report?"

After a moment's hesitation, Hux spoke again, barely audible over alarms blaring in the background. "Hull compromise on Decks 4 through 22, medbay included. CMO, helmsman, and chief engineer killed in action. Hyperdrive regulators intact. Two of eleven sublights online. Bridge secure with auxiliary power and limited atmosphere. Casualty count estimated at— "

He hissed, teeth gritted in pain. An unmistakable sound.

The last living First Order high commander was injured. Severity unknown.

Footsteps echoed through the comlink, then rustling uniforms, then a muffled exchange between officers. "Sir, what's wro— " This voice was younger, male, trembling but insistent. "Gods alive, is all that blood yours?!"

"I'm f-fine, Mitaka." The general didn't sound fine. "Return to your post."

The Finalizer was in dire straits: life support dangling by a thread, medbay defunct, physician dead, her commander actively hemorrhaging. No doubt Rey suffered from a pathologic urge to help people, but this was Armitage Hux of Arkanis, orchestrator of the Hosnian Cataclysm, the man they call the Starkiller.

Forewarning him about a Sith murder spree was one thing. Offering medical aid was quite another. The entire Resistance held its collective breath. Rey felt their moral conflict like a fissure in the Force, pulsing and violent.

Not one to keep opinions to himself, Poe muttered, "All bleeding stops eventually."

But this decision wasn't his. _"The Resistance fights for every soul in this galaxy, and Crait is a sanctuary for all."_ Attention thus turned to General Organa and Master Luke, who exchanged a long look, silently arguing.

As usual, the sister won.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

General Hux was in the Resistance medbay.

In fact, a shit-ton of fascists were in the Resistance medbay, and Poe didn't like it. He didn't like it one bit. Against her better judgement, Leia allowed several First Order shuttles into the base, and Dr. Kalonia received anyone requiring immediate medical assistance, what with the Finalizer's medidroids and CMO out of commission.

Lucky that Poe wasn't calling the shots, because Hux and his cronies could die in a ditch for all he cared. _Hosnian, the Republic remembers._

Problem being, Kalonia was in way over her head. The crew complement of a Star Destroyer numbered in tens of thousands. Though countless people aboard the Finalizer were killed outright in the Massacre at Kerroc, hundreds more sustained life-threatening injuries.

Hundreds.

The medbay on Crait was only a few cots in a dank cave. It didn't even have a water heater.

They were nowhere near equipped for this.

As the clusterfuck unfolded, Poe and Black Squadron and their fellow freedom fighters stood to the side, the judgiest of peanut galleries. Rey and the Knights of Ren also watched with bated breath, whispering amongst themselves. When stormtroopers marched from the shuttles and into the main hanger, transporting the wounded on stretchers, Finn stared unblinking, expression blank. Rose held his hand.

But everyone snapped to attention when the chrome-plated Captain Phasma sprinted down a gangplank, carrying an unconscious someone in her arms.

This someone sported general's stripes on a gaberwool greatcoat. Oh, and red hair.

"Holy stars." Jess Pava jabbed Poe in the shoulder, pointing. "Did Hux finally kick it?"

If so, hallelujah.

Moving faster than anyone in full armor had any right to move, Phasma zoomed into medbay, flanked by two panicky lieutenants, and flung their lifeless general onto a cot.

"He collapsed en route. We can't rouse him." Her toneless voice echoed through a helmet and vocoder, her silver vambraces dripping with Hux's blood. "He never even told us he was hurt."

Poe wondered if she was more worried or annoyed.

With clinical efficiency, Dr. Kalonia and her medics ripped off the general's greatcoat and tunic, soaked with hemorrhage. Absent his pauldrons and high collar, Hux looked smaller, almost delicate. All lean muscle and wiry tendons, pale and fine-boned and freckly, stripped down to those ridiculous flare-hipped breeches, identitags, and a sleeveless gray undershirt.

At least, it used to be gray. That there was a lot of blood.

A  _lot_  of blood.

Poe had never seen so much blood. And he'd seen his fair share.

Strangely enough, Hux also wore a lightweight leather gauntlet, buckled tightly about his right forearm and previously hidden up his sleeve. In her rush, Kalonia reached for the device, intent to remove it, but a First Order officer stopped her.

"Careful, doctor!" cried the male lieutenant — Mitaka, if memory served. Poe recognized his voice from the comm. "That's a monomolecular blade."

Kalonia recoiled. The preferred stealth weapon of assassins and bounty hunters, set on a hair-trigger. She shook her head, spinning around, loading a hypospray. "Why d'you people insist upon arming yourselves to the teeth?"

Emotions ran high. Nerves were frayed. The other lieutenant — a young woman, maybe eighteen or nineteen — snapped back. "Because savage anarchists are always trying to kill us."

Sensitive subject. Poe was quick on the draw. "You lot slaughtered five billion innocent Hosnians, then call us savages?!"

"Enough!" roared Dr. Kalonia. "This is a hospital, not criminal court. Even if the man on that cot were Emperor Palpatine himself, I swore an oath of healing."

Everybody zipped it. If you knew what was best for you, don't argue with the good doctor. She morphed into an unholy demon when something stood between her and patient care, rounding upon Poe and Black Squadron, the Jedi, the darksiders.

"Either help me help Hux," ordered Kalonia, "or get the fuck out of my medbay."

Without hesitation, Rey stepped forward as an extra set of hands and was promptly put to work, measuring doses, fetching instruments, applying pressure to wounds. Ulic Ren volunteered too. The precise nature of his medical training remained somewhat dubious — poisons and bionic experiments, Poe stood convinced — but he was undoubtedly skilled.

Abysmal bedside manner, though.

Ulic swept a medisensor over the unconscious Hux, his assessment cold, detached, and pessimistic. "Class III catastrophic hypovolemia, rapidly approaching fatal Class IV." Over his shoulder, Kalonia checked the readings, nodding her head, injecting vasopressors and procoagulants into Hux's neck. "Multiple open rib fractures with laceration of the adjacent intercostal arteries. And six intrathoracic metal foreign bodies consistent with shrapnel."

On the sidelines, a stunned squeak from Lieutenant Mitaka. "He led us through battle with shrapnel in his chest?!"

"Pack his wounds with bacta," came Dr. Kalonia's orders. "Get me venous access and prep for a transfusion."

The other medics launched to action, but Ulic questioned her plan.

"Blood products must be stored in carbonite freezers. The Finalizer's medbay was sucked into space, and Crait has no such facilities. You barely have running water." The knight raised a pretentious and challenging brow. "Hux needs at least three units of type-matched red cells, else he's a dead man."

Already two steps ahead, Kalonia produced a handheld device from the nearby cabinet. "Automated blood-typer."

Battlefield medicine at its finest. She loaded it with a sample from Hux, then wrapped her lips around the collection tube and exhaled. The device whirred, its indicator flashing red.

Incompatible.

"I'm not the only eligible candidate on this base." Kalonia held the blood-typer aloft, shouting to the room at large. "We screen anyone willing to donate, Resistance and First Order alike!"

And then, something remarkable happened.

A deep, heartfelt warble echoed across medbay, and Chewbacca shoved through the crowd. He extended a paw toward Dr. Kalonia, then thumped his chest. To Poe's fiendish delight, those First Order lieutenants shrunk away, huddled together in abject terror.

Clearly their first encounter with a Wookie, beyond HoloNet vids of them ripping off people's arms.

Funny because the First Order were assholes, but even funnier because this was Chewbacca, a credit to his species and far better person than any human could ever hope to be. Kalonia had a soft spot for him, as did the entire Resistance.

Wookies were easy to love.

"That's very generous, Chewie." The doctor was fluent in Shyriiwook, but answered in Basic and with sincerest gratitude. She squeezed his paw, her fingers tiny in his. "You've more than enough blood to spare, and I wish we could use it. But human transfusions require human donors, else the recipient could die from hemolysis."

She handed the blood-typer to Chewbacca, who was still eager to assist however he could.

"Pass that around, but only to volunteers. This medbay operates under Republican law. No one can be forced to donate tissue against their will." Kalonia promptly returned to her patient, whose vitals were unstable and fading fast. "Quickly now. Hux is running out of time."

Chewbacca nodded with solemn understanding, then approached Captain Phasma and the lieutenants. He growled a soft, sad sound, holding out the device first to Mitaka.

Limited by a language barrier, the lieutenant glanced sidelong to Rey, who stood at Hux's bedside, holding a sterile tray for the medics and taking her job very seriously.

But she was a Jedi, and Jedi could multitask.

Shyriiwook obviously wasn't covered in the First Order curriculum, so Rey translated. "Chewie's upset because he can't donate blood. He would if he could." Her voice waxed hopeful. "He's asking if you will too."

Mitaka inched toward the Wookie, petrified if determined. "I'd bleed myself dry if it came to that. General Hux saved us." He accepted the blood-typer from Chewbacca, blew into the device, but its light flashed red again.

Incompatible.

Without further ado, First Order personnel swarmed the lieutenant. A few were healthy stormtroopers in the security detail, but most sported injuries of their own: lacerations, concussions, broken bones, second-degree burns. Suboptimal donor candidates, their own health at risk, but that changed nothing.

They volunteered anyway, selfless and hopeful to help their general.

Gods knew why. That man defined pompous and insufferable.

Surprise, surprise, even Captain Phasma doffed her helmet for screening. She had short blonde hair and blue eyes with a burn scar across the left side of her face. But one by one, the blood-typer whirred and flashed red.

Amongst the First Order, or what little was left of it, all present were incompatible.

Crestfallen and frantic, Lieutenant Mitaka whirled about, his round face dirty with soot, marred with flesh wounds, streaked with tears. This was the same officer who spared Dr. Kalonia from mistakenly stabbing herself with Hux's monomolecular blade. In the last eight hours, he'd been to hell and back, survived the Massacre at Kerroc by the skin of his teeth, watched everyone on the Supremacy die in horrific fashion.

Now those wide, haunted eyes settled upon Poe. "Please, captain." Mitaka held out the blood-typer, the strangest olive branch in history. "Please help us."

Smart kid, to memorize and correctly interpret the red rank insignia on Poe's jacket, but then the First Order enlisted its officers so young, too young. This lieutenant looked nothing like the crusty old Imperials who came before. Those men were warmongers for an autocratic regime, while Mitaka was still half a child.

"I beg of you." His voice cracked. "General Hux is all we have left."

Poe wrinkled his nose. If anyone else in the galaxy needed an emergency transfusion, literally  _anyone_  else, he'd already have his sleeves rolled to the elbows, ready and waiting. But this was Armitage Hux, the man they call the Starkiller.

And guess who landed the kill shot on Starkiller Base?

Prettiest explosion Poe had ever seen: fire from ice, a life-giving supernova, a sun's rebirth. In that moment, he felt invincible, like Luke fucking Skywalker against the Death Star. Poe was a rebel pilot, a Resistance hero, the Starkiller's Bane. Hux was a mass murderer, a madman, a tyrannical villain.

And villains deserve to lose, to suffer, to die alone.

Don't they?

As conflict tore him apart, Poe felt a steady hand on his shoulder. It belonged to Finn.

"I've more reason than most to wish Hux dead, but not like this. Let him live to see trial for his crimes." Saint that he was, Finn pointed to the general, unconscious and ghostly pale on that cot, breathing labored, humbled and helpless. "I said it before. I'll say it again. We're the good guys. We're the Resistance."

"And when somebody asks for help," quoted Poe, finally meaning it, "we answer."

Finn was right. Finn was always right.

Both beaten and broken, the Resistance and the First Order faced their most desperate hour, their first common enemy. Poe only ever heard stories about the Sith, their cruelty, their malice, their subversion and hate and quest to dominate the galaxy. Snoke — or Darth Plagueis, or whoever he was — had to be stopped. At any cost.

The Hosnian Cataclysm, the Massacre at Kerroc, and what next? How many more need die?

Rebels and Imperials, Resistance and First Order, scum and villainy, forced together by circumstance and tragedy and betrayal, now with a dying man's fate hanging in the balance between them.

And in that moment, when Poe Dameron sunk low enough to ally with his sworn enemies, at least he did it to save a life.

He only wished the life in question weren't General Hux.

Diffident for once, Poe took the blood-typer from Lieutenant Mitaka, wrapped his lips around the collection tube, and exhaled hard. A whir, a beep, a moment of suspense, then flashing red.

Poe was incompatible with Hux, figuratively and literally.

"C'mon, you all heard Finn." Poe waved the device above his head. "Step right up. Don't be shy."

And to the visible surprise of the First Order, step right up they did.

Every single human member of the Resistance. Every single one.

The blood-typer rapidly circulated medbay, passing between prospective candidates, desperately screening for a donor as precious minutes ticked by. They tested Finn next, then Rose, then Kaydel and the majority of Black Squadron, even Leia and Luke as the whole affair devolved into a life-or-death game of hot potato.

All incompatible.

And then the device found its way to Rey Kenobi and the Knights of Ren.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

"Here!" Rey scrambled forward. "Give it here!"

She set down her sterile tray and snatched the blood-typer from Luke, who immediately objected. "No, padawan! You can't afford to lose more blood." Her master really did care, and for that she was grateful. "You were _shot_ last week."

"I'll live." She blew into the device, but her face fell as it flashed red once again. Rey wasted no more time, spinning on her heels, forking over the blood-typer next to Aurra Ren.

Wearing a look of disgust, she refused. "Fuck no." Especially in light of recent events, the darksiders had no great love for General Hux. In fact, they'd be perfectly content to watch him bleed out.

Rey thought fast. "If you want him to suffer in his own special circle of hell, then let Hux live knowing the Resistance saved him."

Sound argument.

Aurra hesitated, uncertain, glancing to Kylo for guidance.

Contemplative, the master of the Knights of Ren stared at his unconscious adversary, the man who doused him in anesthetic inhalant and left him to rot. Contempt bled through the Force bond, his cruel satisfaction at their role reversal. Now Hux knew betrayal, helplessness, subjugation under Snoke's heel. Now he knew what it felt like to wither behind enemy lines, catheters in every vein.

<Let the bastard die, cowering in a cave, no better than the rest of us.>

Reaching through the Force, Rey flicked him behind the left ear, harder than usual, almost disciplinary. <Nobody deserves to die like that.> Silently, privately, she begged Kylo to remember. She begged him to listen. <No matter who you are. No matter what you've done.>

After a few tense moments of indecision, pointedly trying to ignore her, Kylo Ren looked to his acolytes. "Your blood." He nodded curtly, permission given. "Your choice."

Aurra leading the charge, each knight subjected themselves to screening, some more reluctant than others. By default, only Sedriss and Caedus were truly exempt, due to the Twi'lik hemocyanin and Chiss cobogloblin in their blood, respectively.

Still no luck. All incompatible.

Dr. Kalonia pressed a wireless medisensor onto Hux's forehead. It screeched in alarm. "Brainstem perfusion down 40%." Keen to avoid panic amongst the First Order, she whispered an aside to her medics. "We're losing him. Be ready if he codes."

To his credit, Mitaka was not so easily duped, and for the first time since their arrival, the lieutenant got a little fierce. "We tested almost two hundred candidates," he snarled, deeply suspicious, "but not a single match?"

The other lieutenant caught his drift. "Are you people killing Hux on purpose?!"

A nearby medidroid chirped, inappropriately chipper. "Processing next-of-kin queries for Hux, Armitage." After a short delay, it resumed. "Recipient red cell immunotype characterized by exclusive Corellian Rh modifier, Y chromosome linked."

General Organa jerked to attention, eyes widening, lunging forward and rounding on the droid. "Hux's blood type is heritable only from Corellian fathers to sons?!"

"Affirmative."

"Logical." Captain Phasma, her helmet back on. "Brendol Hux was born on Corellia."

Leia turned slowly, staring her son dead in the eye. "So was Han Solo."

And finally, finally, the blood-typer passed to Kylo Ren — _Ben Solo, please be Ben today_ — who clutched the device in his gloved hand. Resentment burned through the Force, his unadulterated loathing for General Hux, a darksider's want of revenge.

Rey reasoned with him. <Hux is more valuable to us alive.> She was like a telepathic gnat, constantly buzzing in her bondmate's ear, and the expression on his face said that Kylo would love nothing better than to swat her. <He outsmarted Darth Plagueis. The last person to do that was Palpatine himself.>

<That's not ominous at all.> Kylo glared, mostly because she made a solid point. In the wars to come, like it or not, they needed all the help they could get. Source be damned.

No doubt he hated Hux, but he hated Snoke more.

Kylo scowled at the blood-typer, as though it offended him personally, then raised it to his mouth and exhaled into the collection tube.

The device dinged. Green light.

Compatible donor.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Thank the gods that Kylo Ren was such an absurdly large man, healthy and fit to boot. Due to risk of side effects, normal people could donate only one unit of whole blood at a time.

Kylo donated three.

Master Luke approached him during the transfusion. What with his nephew hooked to fluid pumps and monitors, Kylo had no choice but to sit there and listen.

"You despise Hux." Luke was genuinely baffled. "Why are you helping him?"

Rey wished the answer were something wholesome, something wise, wartime logic or Jedi altruism, building bridges instead of burning them. But alas, the master of the Knights of Ren had his own agenda.

"Because if he dies now," grumbled Kylo, "then I can't kill him myself."

Within half an hour, General Hux received over a liter of homologous blood. Too much, too fast, a gamble at the eleventh hour. Match or not, if the recipient rejected such a large volume, then game over.

Hux could die from it, but he'd definitely die without it. They hadn't the luxury of caution.

Hours ticked by, tense and uncertain. Medics continuously monitored his heart rate, his blood pressure, treading on eggshells, watching and waiting for signs of a transfusion reaction.

None came. No rejection, no hemolysis, not even a fever.

Hux fully accepted Kylo's blood as his own.

A poignant metaphor lurked in there somewhere, though Rey was far too exhausted to appreciate it. Running on fumes, she assisted Dr. Kalonia through the night and into the next. Sterilizing instruments, washing linens, tending bandages, keeping the Resistance and the First Order from fisticuffs.

For the foreseeable future, the rebel base had become a neutral zone. Anyone who wasn't Snoke was safe here. Check your political agenda at the door.

Easier said than done.

Upsilon-class command shuttles filled their hanger. First Order uniforms littered their medbay. Around every corner was a gaggle of stormtroopers. One unlucky vachead got lost on his way to the refresher and stumbled upon BB-8, who mistook the poor soul as an 'unsanctioned intruder' and tased him.

That took some smoothing over. The entire situation was a powder keg.

How long she'd been awake, Rey had no idea, but Finn eventually tracked her down and insisted she rest. "Gimme that thing." He pried a laundry basket from her weak grip and steered her out of medbay. "Lie down before you fall down."

Dead on her feet, Rey acquiesced. But her quarters in the barracks were clear across the base. Instead, she trudged a shorter distance into the deserted mess hall, curling up on a sack of grain in the kitchen.

She slept ill, her dreams hazy and strange.

> The rain never stopped on Arkanis.
> 
> Amid air raids from the New Republic siege, a little boy picked through the ruins of an Imperial academy, obliterated in a bombing. He couldn't be older than five, the same age as Rey at her abandonment on Jakku. This poor child was all alone, dressed in filthy wet rags and his face caked with mud, wandering an active warzone.
> 
> He searched the wreckage for his mother, frantic and sobbing, screaming at the top of his tiny lungs. In a desolate landscape of gray smoke and brown rubble and endless downpours, his copper-red hair was the only shock of color.
> 
> Rey knew this boy. She'd seen him before, inside the memories of a First Order general. And it suddenly occurred to her why this dream was so indistinct, so blurry, like trying to see through frosted glass.
> 
> This dream wasn't hers.
> 
> It belonged to Armitage Hux, currently unconscious in the Resistance medbay with one-fifth of his red cells donated by Kylo Ren.
> 
> Her bondmate.
> 
> A temporary link, whispered the Force, forged with Kylo's blood as a conduit. Just this once, Rey and Hux would share one dream and one dream only.
> 
> Neither coincidence, nor happenstance. She needed to see this.
> 
> Rey needed to know, to empathize, to understand.
> 
> Somehow, some way, the fate of the galaxy hinged upon it.
> 
> And so she watched a nightmare unfold.
> 
> "Mama?" Digging through bricks and mortar, young Hux uncovered the body of a beautiful blonde woman, pinned under a duracrete slab. She wore a cook's apron, stained with blood. The terror in his voice was gut-wrenching, and he shook her shoulders in desperation. "Mama, wake up!"
> 
> Rey's heart went out to him. Without thinking, she extended her arm and opened her palm, intent to help, summoning the Force to lift those rocks off his mother.
> 
> But nothing happened.
> 
> Of course it didn't. This was a dream, a vision, a static memory. The Siege of Arkanis occurred ten years before Rey was ever born.
> 
> All she could do was watch, knowing full well how this ended.
> 
> Sirens wailed in the distance, drawing closer. A landspeeder zipped into view, navigating rough terrain. Rey recognized the red cross on its door. Imperial army, medical squadron.
> 
> Except the first person to disembark didn't dress much like a battlefield doctor. She was a willowy woman in a dreamsilk gown with jewels woven into her black hair. Clearly rich, clearly highborn, clearly married, since the glitterstone ring on her left hand could've bought a year's portions for every scavenger at Niima Outpost.
> 
> "Meridia? Meri, where are you?!" This aristocratic lady scrambled from the speeder, hiking her skirts to her knees, traipsing through the muck and rain without a care for her fine clothes. "Armitage? Tage— oh, Tage, thank the stars you're safe!"
> 
> She knelt in the cold mud and engulfed young Hux in a hug, his grubby little hands clinging to her dress, destroying the fabric. This woman was a familiar friend. She visited the servants' quarters often, brought blankets and toys and food, played starships and smugglers with him, even read him to sleep when his mother worked late in the kitchens.
> 
> In that blind way a dreamer accepts their dream, Rey understood immediately who she was: Maratelle Hux, née Sindian, lady of the house, heiress to a royal Arkanian fortune. Not to mention the commandant's lawful wife, who took it upon herself to feed and clothe her husband's destitute mistress and bastard son.
> 
> Propriety and tradition be damned.
> 
> She did it because it was the right thing to do, because she had everything and they nothing, and — best of all — because Brendol explicitly forbid it.
> 
> Maratelle couldn't care less about her husband. She didn't love him. She never had. She never would. Theirs was a political marriage, his power for her money.
> 
> "Please help, Auntie Mara." Crying into her neck, young Hux pointed at that duracrete slab and the unmoving body beneath. "Mama won't wake up."
> 
> Maratelle launched to action, snarling at the stormtroopers on their landspeeder. "Medics stat! What are you imbeciles waiting for?!"
> 
> "We mustn't delay, ma'am." The squad leader sported a white pauldron over his armor. "Republican bombers are circling back for another sweep, and Commandant Hux specifically ordered extraction for the boy only, not the mother."
> 
> That didn't go over well.
> 
> "I don't give a womp rat's ass what Brendol wants. Those are my credits that pay you." Maratelle Hux about bit his head off. "Get Meridia out of there, else the New Republic will be the least of your fucking problems."
> 
> No further questions. They set to task.
> 
> While the soldiers worked, young Hux clung to his stepmother, who rocked him in her arms and cradled his head and quelled his tears. Wisely so, she faced him away as the stormtroopers loaded Meridia onto a gurney, covering the worst of her wounds with a sheet.
> 
> As the rain poured down, all Hux remembered were puddles around the speeder staining darker and darker red.
> 
> Rey looked away, crying in earnest now. She hated killing. She hated war. And in that moment, she resolved to see peace within her lifetime, no matter the cost.
> 
> "Lady Hux?" piped the squad leader, sporting a healthy fear of her now. "The kitchen wench is alive, but barely. She's asking about the boy."
> 
> Maratelle set the child down at his mother's side. "He's safe, Meri. I've got him."
> 
> Meridia reached out for her son, who rested his head gently on her chest. "Be brave, sunshine." Her hand curled into his red hair, soaked with rainwater. "Soon the Force will take me to a place where you cannot follow."
> 
> Only five years old, and still the boy who became General Hux brimmed with a familiar fire. "I hate the Force. I hate it!" Both sentiment and prophesy, as he'd hold to that for decades. "After it takes you away, will you ever come back?"
> 
> _"No, come back! Come back!"_ Rey couldn't breathe. Suddenly she was on Jakku again, the sun hot on her face, watching her family jet away on a silver starship, never to return.
> 
> As an experienced mother does, Meridia dodged her son's question, softening the blow. "Admiral Rax and his officers are evacuating Arkanis. They plan to take you away too."
> 
> "But why? Father says I'm useless." Stubborn by nature, young Hux shook his head. "I don't want to go anywhere with him."
> 
> Meridia held his tiny hand. "You are stronger than Brendol will ever be. Bastards can rise high in this world, Armitage, and yours is the power to create and destroy stars. Use it wisely."
> 
> "Don't leave me, mama. Please don't go."
> 
> She clung to him, but her grip was weakening, her words slurring, her life ending. In that last moment, Meridia looked beyond her son and past Rey, almost through them.
> 
> "May you be a light for him in dark places," implored his mother, a cryptic benediction, before she fell limp and silent, "when all other lights go out."

"Rey? Rey." That apologetic voice belonged to Poe Dameron, as did the gentle hand shaking her shoulder. "Sorry, naptime's over. You're needed in medbay."

She pretended to rub sleep from her eyes, instead wiping away tears. "W-why?"

"Gingerbell's awake."

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Pacing about medbay, Poe crossed his arms and scuffed his boots and glared daggers at the privacy curtain that hid General Hux and his First Order patsies from view.

War criminals, the lot of them. Public enemy number one, the Republic's most wanted, responsible for Starkiller Base and the Hosnian Cataclysm. They were what was wrong with the galaxy, the worst of the worst.

Prideful and bigoted. Sleazy and corrupt.

And now, they dared to issue commands at a Jedi?

"Who does Hux think he is, 'demanding' to speak with Rey?!" The sheer nerve of that man, the blatant disrespect. And not an ounce of gratitude, even after the Resistance saved his skin. Poe grumbled and griped under his breath. "He's bedridden behind enemy lines and in no position to make demands."

Kaydel Ko Connix held out her hands, palms up. "Don't shoot the messenger." Amongst a dozen other hats, she'd also become the unofficial medbay bouncer. Nobody in or out without her permission. "Hux is clinically stable, but Dr. Kalonia asked us to wait here until she reevaluates him."

Poe scrubbed a hand through his hair, still pacing. "Anyone who calls her a Jakku rat doesn't deserve to breathe the same air as a Jedi, much less speak to her."

As usual, Rey was far too forgiving. "Hux is scared, desperate for control. I can't say I blame him." She sat on an upturned crate, hands folded in her lap, patient and introspective. "The First Order is as much a victim of Snoke as we are."

Poe couldn't argue with that, but he didn't have to like it. "The First Order is everything I stand against, everything my family stood against, everything Yavin will always stand against, long after I'm gone."

"And by that same token, Hux has every reason to hate the Republic." Rey was hushed and hallowed. "His mother died right in front of him during the Siege of Arkanis."

Poe wondered vaguely how she knew that. Must be a Jedi thing.

"Arkanis was an Imperial stronghold, and our provisional government did what was necessary to end a war." He felt defensive, rebellion thick in his blood, pulsing alongside adrenaline and patriotism. "Regardless, the accidental death of one civilian doesn't excuse mass murder."

"Of course it doesn't." How could Rey be so calm, so steady, so balanced? Stormtroopers were _inside_ the Resistance base. If Poe sat still at a time like this, he'd go nuts. "But we need not condone his actions to understand his motives."

She had a fascinating duality about her, one minute spouting some metaphysical proverb that made Poe rethink his life, the next marveling at a jogan fruit because she'd never tasted one before. Were all Jedi like her, once upon before, or was Rey the first of something different, something new?

Kaydel lowered her voice to a conspiring whisper. "I overheard his lieutenants say General Hux feigned a reactor breach and faked the Finalizer's death. That's how they escaped from Kerroc when no other ships did."

Poe briefly stopped pacing, if only to spit a begrudging, "Clever."

Understatement of the century. If true, that was a stroke of strategic genius. And gods forbid, but academics had a nasty habit of naming such battle maneuvers after their creator. Poe would rather not read about 'the Starkiller's gambit' in flight manuals.

"Whatever he did, the entire galaxy thinks the Finalizer is space dust. It's all over the HoloNet." Kaydel showed them her datapad, flashing with brazen, colorful headlines, spreading conspiracy theories about the Massacre at Kerroc.

Only a few media outlets published the barebones facts, sans rumor or speculation: infighting decimated the First Order fleet, all thirteen generals and admirals presumed dead, the Supremacy's whereabouts unknown. In one article, Hux's holoimage appeared alongside his fellow high commanders, each face superimposed with a morbid X.

How disconcerting that must be, to wake up and read your own obituary.

Cogs whirring, Rey tilted her head. "Then we're the only people who know Hux and his crew are still alive." She brightened a bit. "Nobody's looking for them, Snoke included, which gives us the advantage."

"Best keep it that way," suggested Poe. "Advantages are in short supply nowadays."

"To what end, though?" Ever practical, Kaydel crossed her arms. "Only a matter of time before somebody notices their ship isn't amongst the debris."

"And only a matter of time before the Supremacy reemerges from wild space and beelines for our base." Rey stared resolutely ahead, awaiting her conversation with the First Order general. If she was nervous, it never showed. "Snoke already knows we're on Crait, but he doesn't know Hux is here too. And the Force doesn't make mistakes. It brought the Finalizer to our doorstep for a reason."

"If that's the case," muttered Poe, "I'm beginning to think the Force and I have different priorities."

"Blasphemy." Rey was teasing. "You've used the Force before."

Yeah, very funny. Poe laughed aloud, before realizing she was serious. "Say what?"

"When you shot down ten TIE fighters over Takodana." Rey wore a knowing look. "Double-ace in sixteen seconds flat? Even a Jedi would call that impressive."

"Dumb luck and experience, in that order." Poe shook his head, quite certain. "I'm the nullest of Force-null."

Rey shrugged. "You may not float rocks, but everyone has the Force. It's with you each time you climb into a cockpit. It was with Finn when he overcame his First Order conditioning." Proving a point, she gestured at the privacy curtain. "And it was with Hux during the Massacre at Kerroc."

Poe blanched and froze in his tracks. Now that there was a terrifying prospect. "You think  _Hux_ used the Force?"

Rey raised an eyebrow. "You think he outwitted a Sith lord without it?"

Which was worse, the living nightmare of Force-sensitive Hux or admitting that Force-null Hux was just that good? Poe honestly didn't know, nor did he care to find out.

No matter. All chatter died when Lieutenant Mitaka emerged from behind the curtain. His black uniform was singed and torn, his face still crusted with ash and blood. Regardless, he stood at flawless attention, hands folded behind his back, then jerked his head at Rey.

"The general will see you now, scavenger." His level of conceit was almost laughable.

"To you foul people," snapped Poe, a knee-jerk reaction, "she's Master Kenobi."

A look of genuine surprise flashed across Mitaka. "My— my apologies. I've never addressed a Jedi." He regrouped, with an awkward bow in her direction. "Master Kenobi."

She took it in stride, her grandfather's granddaughter, an ambassador at heart. "Much appreciated, but 'Rey' is perfectly fine." Before rounding the privacy curtain, she appraised the lieutenant and his wounds. "Have you been tended to? We can call for a medidroid."

Mitaka's hand flew to the gash across his forehead, as though he'd forgotten about it. "Don't waste manpower or bacta on me." He set his jaw, deeply sincere. "I understand your supplies are limited, with others in far greater need."

Unexpectedly altruistic, for a soulless fascist.

Poe and Kaydel exchanged a shrug. "I'll clean him up." Kaydel volunteered, despite having too much on her plate already. "Won't take but a minute."

"Thank you, Kay." Rey smiled at Mitaka, who dipped his head and averted his eyes like a bashful schoolboy. Whether because she was a Jedi master, a scummy rebel, or a pretty girl remained to be seen. "Never fear, lieutenant. I leave you in very capable hands."

With that, she vanished into her landmark meeting with General Hux.

In the meantime, Kaydel filled a basin with water and powdered soap. Poe tossed her a clean washcloth, then directed Mitaka to the overturned crate Rey had just vacated.

"Sit down," suggested Poe. "Connix is too short to reach your face."

Kaydel flicked sudsy water at him. "You're vertically challenged too."

Ignoring their banter, Lieutenant Mitaka sat stiffly, gloved hands folded in his lap. If outwardly calm and cooperative, his eyes were wary and watchful, tracking her every move as Kaydel wrung out the rag and approached him.

"It's saltwater. Might sting a little." She wiped the cut on his forehead, very gently. Mitaka winced. "Blame Crait. We can't afford to use freshwater for anything except drinking."

The lieutenant bit his lip, weathering discomfort. "Even the air on this planet tastes like salt."

"My skin's never been clearer." Kaydel was chatty by nature. "Great exfoliant."

An aborted laugh burst from Mitaka, before he squashed it in favor of military decorum. As she scrubbed his face clean and picked glass shards from his hair, the lieutenant grew contemplative again.

"You and your friends," prompted Mitaka. "FN-2187 and the Wookie."

Poe prickled, correcting him again. "Finn and Chewbacca."

"Finn and... Chewbacca," mimed the lieutenant, baffled that ex-stormtroopers and walking carpets possessed names instead of numbers. "You were first among the Resistance to volunteer as prospective blood donors for General Hux, and your generosity inspired others to do the same. Please convey my gratitude."

"Sure." Poe had nothing else to say on the subject, since 'you're welcome' or 'happy to help' would be downright lies. "It was the right thing to do."

Mitaka glanced over his shoulder at the privacy curtain. "And your Jedi— er, Master Kenobi." This time he caught himself, amending her title. "She's not what I expected either."

Kaydel hummed curiously, dabbing his cheek. "How so?"

"They say she's more powerful than Darth Vader ever was." The lieutenant lowered his voice to a whisper. "They say she killed the Supreme Leader."

"She is, and she did." Poe huffed. "But deadness is all relative nowadays."

Mitaka was clearly overwhelmed. "Hux tried to explain why the Supremacy shot at us." He swallowed, regrouped, spit out the words. "Something about a Sith lord, and souls swapping bodies, and the ship being possessed."

He brimmed with confusion and fear. Poe knew that feeling.

"I didn't— " Lieutenant Mitaka shook his head, at a loss. "I still don't understand."

"Me neither, buddy."

The lieutenant searched his face and Kaydel's, desperate for answers. "Hux was hellbent upon getting the Finalizer away from Kerroc and refused to leave his senior staff behind." Beneath anxiety and nerves, Mitaka was sharper than he let on. "He must've had forewarning of the attack. It's the only explanation that makes sense."

Kaydel and Poe exchanged another look, silently agreeing. "It was Rey's idea," confirmed Kaydel. No point in secrets anymore. "She realized the danger and sent Hux a secure comm several hours in advance of the massacre."

Mitaka blinked. "Then she— she saved my life." His whole world flipped upside down, and his expression showed it. A little Jedi from Jakku called into question everything he learned in academy, everything the First Order believed, a lifetime of them versus us. "She saved all our lives."

Poe nodded, nonplussed. "Welcome to the club."

"The Resistance," marveled Mitaka, still coming to grips, "saved the First Order?"

Alright already. Poe sighed. "Rub it in, why don't you?"

Lieutenant Mitaka ignored him, looking to Kaydel instead, eyes alight with curiosity and wonder. "Master Kenobi really is everything they say, isn't she?"

"She's that," came Kaydel's answer, straight from the heart, "and so much more."

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Her initial meeting with General Hux was brief and questionably productive.

At his bedside, Rey sat ramrod straight in a rickety chair with that iconic greatcoat draped over the back, while Captain Phasma hovered nearby like a protective vulture. Heart monitors and fluid pumps beeped in a slow and steady and stable rhythm.

Otherwise it was quiet, and they were alone.

For a long while, the general just laid there on his cot, blanketed and bandaged to a bare chest, freckled arms at his sides. He didn't open his eyes, didn't move, didn't even acknowledge Rey.

She began to wonder if he'd fallen back asleep, until Hux finally spoke.

"Go on, scavenger," he muttered. "Say it."

Delirium from blood loss, perhaps. "Say what?"

"'I told you so.'"

Rey snorted. She couldn't help it. "I did tell you so."

"Indeed you did, from Darth Plagueis to essence transfer to hostile takeover." At last Hux opened his eyes, bloodshot, butane blue, and cut straight to the chase, despite a near-death experience. "I presume Qalar Ren is still tracking the Supremacy?"

Rey nodded. "She's idling in wild space, but only a matter of time before Snoke makes for Crait, for the Resistance, for Kylo and me." With that in mind, she further updated the general, unsure if anyone had. "You've been unconscious in the Resistance medbay for almost two days."

"I gathered." Hux tried and failed to lift his head from his pillow, glancing around, appraising the crusty cave with a judgmental frown. "You call this filthy place a medbay?"

Disregarding that, Rey continued. "How d'you feel?"

"Like shit."

Fair. She shrugged. "You look like shit."

Usually so prim and proper, the general was even paler than usual, his red hair unkempt, grungy with sweat and soot, dark bruises all over his throat and chest and arms. To conserve bacta, Dr. Kalonia applied it only to the gravest of injuries, and minor wounds were left to heal as nature intended.

Rey went on. "You nearly bled out, but we found a transfusion donor."

No detail escaped Armitage Hux. "I have an uncommon blood type. None of my officers or stormtroopers are compatible." He glared at her, jaw clenched and twitching. "Which means you polluted me with the blood of some disease-ridden rebel ingrate."

"Worse." This ain't gonna be pretty. "With the blood of Kylo Ren."

A beat. "Fuck off, Jedi."

"You asked."

Finding his bearings, Hux propped himself on his elbows and beckoned weakly to Captain Phasma. She approached, armor clanking and hissing. "Status report," demanded the general, weighed down by wires and drip lines. "Give me something to work with."

"Repairs to the Finalizer will take weeks, maybe longer, what with our massive loss of workforce." Phasma spoke of the First Order casualties with such detachment, as though they were numbers on a spreadsheet instead of people. "The ship's still flightworthy, but in no condition for battle."

"Her and me both." Shaking with effort, Hux reclined again, unable to support himself.

Rey chimed in. "All the more reason to leave Crait as soon as possible, disappear until we find a safe shipyard and amass enough allies for a counteroffensive." A serial optimist, she sensed a plan in the making. "The Imperial remnant hid its entire fleet in the Unknown Regions for three decades. Surely we can hide one battlecruiser for a few weeks."

Dead silent, Hux and Phasma stared at her.

It was disconcerting. "If you have a better idea," snipped Rey, "I'm all ears."

The general spat one word and one word only. "We?"

Her temper spiked. Pretentious jackass.

"The Resistance needs transport off this planet, and the First Order needs our help." Rey smothered her frustration, her bitterness, summoning instead her grandfather's knack for diplomacy. If ever a situation called for Kenobi the Negotiator, this was it. "Need I remind you of Qalar's intel, Kalonia's medicine, my Force-sensitivity? Not to mention Rose Tico is worth fifty of your engineers."

A vein bulged at Hux's temple. His right hand jerked reflexively. "That's the girl who bit me."

"Case in point."

Captain Phasma loomed closer, rounding the foot of the cot. In her polished chrome armor, Rey saw the warped reflection of a Jedi padawan, especially tired and broken and sallow against the stark lights of medbay.

_Force alive, is that what's left of me?_ Rey couldn't even remember the last time she ate, showered, changed her clothes. A very unwelcome flashback to life on Jakku.

"What exactly are you proposing, scavenger?" On approach, Phasma used her impressive height for intimidation, along with an absurdly large blaster. The captain carted that thing everywhere, and attempts to disarm her hadn't gone well.

Back straight, chin up, Rey remained seated and refused to show weakness. "Asylum," she answered, unperturbed on the outside, losing her shit on the inside.

General Hux deadpanned. "Asylum."

"The Resistance has neither enough ships nor hyperfuel to evacuate this base, but you do." Feigning confidence, Rey stated her terms. "When the Finalizer departs Crait, take us with you."

Those next few seconds stretched for eternity.

Hux gave a tiny shake of his head, certain he misheard, burying surprise beneath a disgusted scowl. He parroted her, disbelieving. "Take you… with us."

"Yes."

"All of you."

"Ninety-nine of us, total." Rey gestured about the caverns and salt mines that the Resistance called home. Months in exile had begun to feel like centuries. "We don't take up much room."

Still supine on his cot, the general stared for a long while at the stone ceiling, dotted with stalactites. "You want to evacuate the Resistance… onto my Star Destroyer."

Rey shrugged. "Keep our enemies close."

"And once you're onboard," asked Hux, reasonably so, "what's to stop me from executing every last one of you?"

"Necessity," countered Rey, leaning forward in her chair. The general instinctively recoiled. "We can help with repairs and tend your wounded." Her palm rested upon the lightsaber at her hip. "And if the First Order has any hope to defeat a Sith lord, you'll need Jedi."

Captain Phasma had something to say about that. "What use are Jedi against a dreadnought?"

"We're more versatile than you think. For example— " Rey waved her hand, a casual gesture, calling upon yet another gift inherited from Obi-Wan. "You will disarm and drop your weapon."

The mind trick lanced through her, sharp and effective. Without hesitation, without question, Phasma set the safeties on her blaster rifle and let it thud to the ground. Only after she'd done it did the captain realize what happened.

By then, it was already too late.

Rey reached out with the Force and summoned the gun, which skidded across the gravel and lodged under the sole of her boot. She would've crushed its barrel, solely for dramatic effect, but reined back.

Behave, play nice, and leave the destructive theatrics to Kylo Ren.

A clever move on Rey's part, but General Hux called her bluff, spitting in fury. "You think you can scare me with parlor tricks?!" He pointed to the bruises on his pale neck, clearly handprints. "Snoke threw me about like ragdoll, Force choked me within an inch of life. Your threats are empty."

"I'm not threatening you. I'm trying to prove myself the lesser of two evils." Standing from her chair, Rey picked up the blaster and laid it at the foot of his cot, then bowed at the recumbent general, Jedi style. "Consider my offer carefully. I expect an answer by noon tomorrow."

With that, she turned and left.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

When the scavenger girl finally emerged from medbay and made her way toward the barracks, Kylo Ren intercepted her. Not a challenge, in and of itself. What with her Force signature ablaze with anxiety and nerves, Rey was hardly difficult to find.

Through their bond, he sensed that her most recent attempts to negotiate with General Hux hadn't gone smoothly. Surprise, surprise, said no one ever. High commanders of the First Order weren't known for diplomatic niceties.

Rey would have better luck brokering peace with the Hutt Cartel.

After donating three units of blood in a single sitting, Kylo was monitored for a few hours, then released for want of space in medbay. The doctor still ordered strict bedrest, but curiosity consumed him. What manner of deal had Rey offered to Hux? What were her intentions, her angle, her plan?

His bondmate always had a plan. More often than not, a clever one.

Eager for answers, Kylo snuck away from his overprotective acolytes and bunk on their shuttle, hiding in a maintenance alcove. His black robes blended into the shadows, and as Rey wandered by, he caught her elbow and pulled her inside.

"Oi, what the— dammit, Ben." She'd been deep in thought, taken by surprise (again) and deeply displeased about it. "Quit sneaking up on me!"

"Quit letting me."

She torqued her arm free, breaking his grip. "I'm hungry. I'm frightened. This base is crawling with stormtroopers, and I've slept for three hours in as many days." The scavenger waggled a cautionary finger in his face. "Don't test me."

"Understood." Now was not the time for a lecture on vigilance and discipline. They'd already rainchecked his and her lesson in Force persuasion and stasis, respectively, so Kylo changed the subject. "You met with Hux?"

"For what it's worth." Rey rubbed her temples, frustrated beyond belief. The general had a penchant for inducing headaches. Kylo Ren would know. "He's about as personable as a rathtar."

Kylo rolled his eyes. "You're the genius who insisted we save him."

"He outsmarted Darth Plagueis. That's more than you and I can say." Rey was impressed, albeit begrudgingly. Their bond pulsed with the same reluctant admiration whenever Kylo deflected blaster bolts or froze them midair. She added, cryptically, "We're to meet again tomorrow."

"Why?" She must be a glutton for punishment, prodding Hux over and over.

"Because the Finalizer is our only hope to leave Crait alive."

Kylo blinked, then blinked again. "That's your escape plan?" Disappointing, honestly. He hoped for something a little more ingenious, a little less suicidal. For the master of the Knights of Ren, ensuring the safety of his acolytes took precedent. "To hitchhike onto a Star Destroyer and into a firing squad?"

"Don't be dramatic. Hux can't afford to kill us. He needs our help as much as we need his." The scavenger vehemently argued her point, eyes alight with stubborn fire. "First Order and New Republic, Centrists and Populists, darkness and light, Snoke would see us all burn together. Remember who the real enemy is."

Kylo swallowed his pride. "Assuming we don't spend the rest of our days in a brig," he grumbled, "the Finalizer alone can't outgun the Supremacy, never mind while she's Sith-possessed."

"Don't rush me. I haven't thought that far ahead." Given recent events, Rey barely found time to breathe in the last three days, and their Force bond seeped with exhaustion. But she couldn't afford to cut herself any slack. Not that she ever would. "Step one, get the Resistance off this planet. Step two, hide the Finalizer from Snoke until repairs are complete. And step three is… to be determined."

"What if— "

"No what ifs." Rey finally snapped. "We'll tackle what ifs as we go."

Not good enough. Kylo had his knights to think of. "What if," he demanded, relentless, "days from now, months from now, years from now, we outlive our usefulness and General Hux pitches us all out an airlock?"

"Maybe our charm and good looks and quick wit will win him over by then." The scavenger sighed, not entirely convincing. "Hopefully."

Kylo scowled. "You can't 'win over' a homicidal maniac with a superiority complex."

"I won you over."

Oookay, low blow, not completely undeserved, and he didn't even bother to deny it. That ship had long since sailed. "I'm not Hux."

"You're more alike than you think, and Snoke knows it." Rey saw the argument forming on his lips and cut Kylo off. "Why else would a Supreme Leader incite competition between his commanders? He couldn't risk the Knights of Ren joining forces with the First Order's favorite general, so he tricked you into hating each other instead."

Kylo opened his mouth to contradict her and found he couldn't. Because that's exactly what happened, wasn't it? Snoke was a manipulative bastard from the start, Darth Plagueis to his core, fanning the flames of mutual contempt, siccing Kylo against Hux in an unwinnable competition for their master's favor.

And the only person who benefitted was the Supreme Leader himself.

"Hux has an army at his fingertips. You're the most dangerous Force-sensitive in the galaxy." Rey shrugged, as if she hadn't just flipped his entire world on its head. "Together you could've usurped Snoke in an afternoon, if only you pulled your head out of your ass."

Kylo picked upon the one and only flaw in her logic. " _I'm_ the most dangerous?" He crossed his arms, steadfast. "Between the two of us, who can flambé people with Force lightning?"

"Switch off." Rey detested her dark side, but he rejoiced in it. "Before I flambé you too." 

Kylo took a step forward, calling her bluff. "Please do."

Rey copied him, rising to the challenge. "Make me."

Another step. "Maybe I will."

Her too. "I'd like to see you try."

And there it was again, that thing she always did, hovering between flirtation and innocence. They stood chest to chest in the maintenance alcove, close enough to touch as they breathed, his black tunic catching on her white robes, neither willing to back down. Compared to Kylo, the scavenger was a tiny thing, dainty and deadly, craning her neck to stare him down.

Rey Kenobi, fierce and fearless, passionate and intelligent and unrelenting, born to be a Knight of Ren. Her talents went to waste with the Jedi, like flying the swankiest starfighter credits could buy and never pushing her past first gear.

_< No eligible bachelors on Jakku.>_

_< You're… jealous.>_

_"Oh, spoil me, baby."_

In close quarters, Kylo became acutely aware of her: the pulse fluttering at her throat, the smell of clay and sweat and salt in her hair, the freckles across her nose and collarbone, the subtle swell of her breasts as they pressed into his chest through their clothes.

Raised a proper Alderaanian prince, Ben Solo knew better than to ogle women. He learned his courtesies before his alphabet. But this was different. Rey was neither an immaculate highborn lady, nor a dirty vid on the HoloNet.

Not a dream. Not a fantasy. She was real.

Achingly, beautifully real.

Her cute little tits brushed against him, an invitation, almost a dare. And like Rey herself, they were small and perfect, soft and warm, pert and pretty. Barely a handful for a man his size.

Kylo wondered, impulsively, what her nipples looked like and how they might feel, hard between his fingers, pebbling against his tongue. Not that he'd any practical experience with such things, but he still licked his lips, a nervous tic.

Rey noticed.

Her gaze lingered on his mouth, the Force thrumming between them.

She didn't back away. Instead came a promise, earnest and heartfelt. No shouting. Master Kenobi needn't raise her voice to intimidate.

"Snoke will suffer for what he's done to you and your knights, to Finn and my friends, to the Republic and the First Order alike." She meant it. Rey cared so damn much, even for those who didn't deserve it. "But after that, after he's gone, let our legacy be peace."

Kylo shook his head. "Impossible."

"But it _is_ possible. We're not so different." On impulse, the scavenger grabbed his hand in both of hers, pressing it between them, squeezing through his glove. He let her. "We've all suffered under tyrants — Darth Plagueis, Unkar Plutt, Brendol Hux. We've all endured the same pain and misery and loneliness."

"And while it turned the rest of us into monsters," marveled Kylo, "it just made you kind."

"No." Rey shook her head, weaving her fingers with his. "It made me hope."

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

By the next morning, General Hux was well enough to walk.

Barely.

At long last, the Resistance medics detached him from heart monitors and drip lines. He showered in saltwater, scrubbing dried blood and remnant pomade from his hair. Someone had washed his tunic and breeches and greatcoat too, folding them neatly over the chair next to his cot.

The general dressed alone, in silence, hiding half-healed bruises beneath a high collar and jackboots and military discipline. Behind enemy lines, he wore his uniform like armor, though unstyled hair and unshaven stubble went against regulations.

First Order regulations, that is.

Did such things matter anymore? Did the First Order even exist, after Snoke murdered his high commanders and destroyed their fleet in one fell swoop? While bedridden, Hux gleaned information from whispers and rumors and snippets of HoloNet news.

They were calling it the Massacre at Kerroc.

They said there were no survivors.

Leaning heavily upon the refresher sink, General Hux appraised his reflection in the mirror, cracked and crusted with red ochre. He looked like a ghost of his former self, worn ragged, sore all over. A broken man, powerless. A prisoner in the rebel base.

If the Finalizer and her crew were presumed dead, then maybe they were.

Maybe this was hell.

It sure felt like hell, like their very own special circle. Fugitives from Snoke, from Darth Plagueis, condemned to Crait, no different than Leia Organa and the scum of the galaxy.

From the moment Hux collapsed onboard his shuttle until he woke, days later, in the Resistance medbay, he had very vivid dreams. Some were mundane memories from academy. Others were violent. He dreamt about Admiral Sloane and her lessons. He dreamt about his graduation and commencement speech, about his first commission, about his promotion to the generalship. He dreamt about his mother, dying amid the Siege of Arkanis.

And nightmare of nightmares, he dreamt about that Jakku rat, the Jedi girl who forewarned him. He dreamt that she saved his life, that he owed her, that she invited herself and dozens of rebel vagrants onto the Finalizer, onto his beloved battlecruiser, his home and haven.

Damned if he did, damned if he didn't, Hux dreamt about an impossible choice: either unify the Resistance and the First Order under one banner, or let the galaxy perish under Snoke.

Unfortunately, when he emerged from that refresher around 1200 hours, Crait Local, at the door was Rey Kenobi, waiting for him. As promised.

Turns out, her bizarre ultimatum was no dream.

Without a word, she escorted Hux out of medbay, away from the safety of Captain Phasma and her stormtroopers, deep into the crystal caves.

He didn't object. He couldn't.

They needed to talk, but said nothing to each other for a long while.

At first, General Hux treaded on pins and needles, wary and watchful and deeply suspicious, treating the scavenger like a venomous snake. Mind your step. Don't blink. Keep an arm's length away and two paces behind. One eye on her lightsaber, the other on her quarterstaff, with his monomolecular blade at the ready.

She played nice yesterday. Too nice. Eerily nice.

Only for some nefarious purpose would a Jedi lure him into this subterranean labyrinth, into the shadows and caverns of Crait. Surely she meant to Force choke the life from him and abandon his body for carrion. Surely she'd burrow into his mind again, poisoning his thoughts, violating his memories.

That's what Force-sensitives do, isn't it?

They trekked further into the caves, along a red clay beach of the underground salt lake, weaving through stalagmites. Resigned to his fate, Hux awaited her attack.

And waited. And waited.

Kenobi slowed her stride, falling into step beside him. She was such a young thing, deceptively dewy and innocent considering what she was capable of. "Am I walking too fast?"

What. "No."

"Dr. Kalonia says you're still quite anemic, even after the transfusion. It'll take a few weeks for you to recover fully." The scavenger pointed at a nearby rock. "D'you want to sit and rest awhile?"

Fed up, General Hux planted his feet in crimson sand, refusing to go any further. "You needn't coddle prisoners before executing them."

"You're our patient, not our prisoner." Kenobi stopped too, leaning on her staff, tilting her head. "And even if you were, we don't execute people. It's against Alderaanian law and the Jedi Code."

Moot point. In wartime, laws became guidelines. Hux would know. "I designed the Starkiller and annihilated your capital." He crossed his arms. "If your precious princess lets me leave this base alive, then she's a worse fool than I thought."

Kenobi ignored the last bit. "Hosnian wasn't my capital."

"Pardon?" She was a Jedi, and Jedi serve the Republic.

"I'm not a citizen of the Republic. I'm not a citizen of anywhere." The scavenger gestured at herself. "Jakku nobody, remember?"

Irrelevant semantics. General Hux grew impatient again. If she wanted to talk shop, then he'd talk shop. "Hypothetically, suppose I agree to your terms. Suppose I provide your people asylum on the Finalizer." He ground his teeth at such a prospect, sick to his stomach. "What then?"

Kenobi fell back upon her rhetoric. "Snoke isn't _on_ the Supremacy. He _is_ the Supremacy." As if Hux weren't fucking well aware of that by now. "If we destroy the ship, we destroy him."

Lofty goals, indeed. "And how do you propose to destroy the Supremacy?" He grew tired of these Resistance morons and their delusions of grandeur. "That dreadnought has enough firepower to conquer hell."

"We swallow our pride. We work together." The scavenger approached him, too close for comfort. Hux held his ground. "And we call for aid, from anyone and everyone: the Mandalorian clans, the Hapes Consortium, the Chiss Ascendancy, Kanjiklub and Crimson Dawn and the Hutt Cartel— "

The general raised a brow. "You're willing to negotiate with gangsters?"

"I'm willing to negotiate with you, aren't I?"

Fair enough, but she was a Jedi, the Resistance darling, Skywalker's protégé. Hux expected more inflexible integrity, less moral ambiguity, fewer shades of gray. And yet here she stood, an unapologetic Rey Kenobi, ready and willing to sell her soul to crime syndicates.

Color him impressed.

The scavenger clarified. "Make no mistake. I _am_ a Jedi, like my grandfather before me." With the subtlest tilt of her head, her posture, the angle of her chin, she morphed from ambassador to assassin in seconds. "Kenobis don't start fights, but we damn well finish them."

Her comlink beeped.

Qalar Ren echoed through the static. Even against a noisy background, Hux would recognize that voice anywhere. "Scavenger, d'you copy?" Audibly nervous, the knight was rushed, distracted, unsure. "Emergency in command central. Return immediately."

Kenobi scrambled for her comlink. "What happened, Q?"

"The Supremacy," came his shaky answer, as if they expected anything less. Risking life and death was just another day at the office. "She reemerged from wild space, near Polis Massa, then jumped to lightspeed. Tracking her on an intercept course for Crait."

Kenobi and Hux locked eyes. Shit.

Snoke was coming for the Resistance, for Kylo Ren and Rey Kenobi, to finish what he started and they thwarted. Did he want them dead? Did he want them for essence transfer, for hostages, for acolytes, for something else?

Who knew. Who cared. Either way, they weren't ready.

The rebels weren't ready. The Jedi weren't ready. The Finalizer wasn't ready. Her crew wasn't ready. Her general wasn't ready. They needed a strategy. They needed allies. They needed more resources, more ships, more troops, more time.

But for now, they needed to run.

"How long have we got?"

An ominous pause, as Qalar calculated. "Two hours. Maybe."

The scavenger flinched. "Understood." She silenced her comm and turned to Hux, tone steeped in finality. "Now or never, general. What say you?"

What could he say? Kenobi was right. Kenobi was right about everything.

Backed into a corner, tails between legs, they were the underdogs, the losing side, mutual victims of the Sith. Their only advantage, if he must label it, was that the Finalizer was presumed dead, alongside every other Resurgent-class starship in the galaxy.

Snoke had no reason to suspect otherwise. It's easy to win at hide-and-seek when nobody's looking for you.

But that's all they had: the luxury of not existing, the ability to disappear.

Not exactly an upper hand.

Loath to admit, the scavenger summarized it best. _"The Imperial remnant hid its entire fleet in the Unknown Regions for three decades. Surely we can hide one battlecruiser for a few weeks."_

Like most cadets, Armitage Hux grew up onboard the Imperialis and the Eclipse, massive Star Destroyers in direct violation of the Galactic Concordance and its disarmament clause. He spent his childhood in constant fear of discovery, hopping from nebula to nebula, cloaked from New Republic sensors by ionized hydrogen and uncharted space.

And it worked. They survived long enough for the Empire to become the First Order, long enough to construct Starkiller Base, long enough to enact their revenge. Granted, it took thirty years and sacrifice beyond measure.

But it did work.

Maybe it could work again.

Hux fell back upon the wisdom of Admiral Sloane, always preaching logic, forethought, patience. If they weren't ready to outfight Snoke and the Supremacy… _"Then don't outfight them. Outsmart them."_

Breathing deep, mind made, he conceded. "I know where we can hide the Finalizer."

Kenobi smiled, brimming with light and hope. "We?"

General Hux already regretted this. "We."

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

They evacuated the rebel base in less than an hour.

Not much packing to do.

Poe was thrilled to escape those salt caves. He was tickled to leave Crait behind. He was grateful not to die in a dreadnought's fiery siege. But beyond that, every instinct in his body screamed with apprehension, because current orders were to fly Black One straight into the belly of the beast.

Also known as the Finalizer.

The kriffing Finalizer.

Rey Kenobi had somehow convinced General Hux to offer the Resistance asylum onboard his Star Destroyer.

Every word in that sentence was sheer insanity. What the actual fuck.

Like, the _actual_ fuck.

Mad props to their favorite Jakku Jedi for achieving the impossible and rescuing everyone from the brink of certain death — again. Her inborn knack for diplomacy was a gift that just kept giving. The Negotiator, indeed, with a success rate that bordered on occult.

'Success' being a matter of perspective, of course, since Poe landing his X-wing in a hanger swarming with stormtroopers didn't feel much like winning. Seated in his astromech socket, BB-8 screeched with similar concerns.

"I hear you, pal." He opened the cockpit canopy and doffed his helmet, then hopped to the ground. Sporting bright orange fatigues, Poe stuck out like a sore thumb against the silver panels and black uniforms of the First Order. "But beggars can't be choosers, and I'd rather take my chances here than with Snoke."

His droid trilled, unsure.

_Hard same, buddy._

Last time Poe boarded the Finalizer, his wrists were in durasteel binders. Not exactly fond memories, though she really was one helluva battlecruiser. Larger than life, cold and industrial and armed to the teeth, built to impress and intimidate. Her main hanger alone was bigger than the Resistance base.

Hell, these Resurgent-class starships had a higher population density than Poe's hometown, and he could walk to the market on Yavin IV faster than he could walk the Finalizer, bow to stern.

A marvel of modern engineering. And a pilot's wet dream.

If she weren't a death machine, Poe might call her beautiful.

But she was, so he didn't.

Not aloud, anyway.

Still inbound were the rest of Black Squadron and a small army of Upsilon-class shuttles, as well as the Millennium Falcon and Ren's TIE silencer. They cruised over Poe's head and touched down in a flurry of organized chaos. Only then began the real race against time, the race against Darth Plagueis himself.

Priority one: unload the medbay patients.

Priority two: staff this battlecruiser with a skeleton crew.

Priority three: get the hell outta dodge.

Achieving said goals required teamwork at its absolute weirdest. Nothing like a Sith murder spree to bring people together, an eclectic mix of First Order and Resistance.

As far as Snoke knew, when he left Kerroc, the Finalizer was a lifeless husk in decaying orbit. As far as Snoke knew, upon arrival at Crait, the rebels had disappeared under mysterious circumstances. But they definitely didn't hitchhike onto a ghost ship under the command of an undead General Hux.

Because that would be ridiculous.

Right? Right.

Joke's on him, but if the Supremacy entered sensor range before they hit hyperspace, kiss that escape plan goodbye. And in all his days, Poe had never seen so many people light so many fires under so many asses.

The hanger was total pandemonium.

Captain Phasma directed air traffic. Legions of fleet engineers worked tirelessly on repairs. Finn and General Organa helped a vachead limp down the Falcon's gangplank. Rey and the Knights of Ren carried the bedridden on stretchers. Kaydel and Lieutenant Mitaka emerged together from a command shuttle, rolling a gurney toward Dr. Kalonia.

This patient appeared particularly critical. "Careful, careful! He has a cervical fracture." The doctor was breathing down their necks. "Mind his respirator. Don't jostle him."

Poe sprinted over, BB-8 close behind. "Where are we taking the wounded?" He posed this question to Mitaka, for want of another commander. Hux was out of earshot and busy screaming at people. "Is your medbay operational yet?"

"Nearly," answered the lieutenant, out of breath. "Life support and hull integrity restored, but the power couplings are fried. We're short on techs and droids— "

Out of nowhere, Rose Tico materialized, toolkit in hand. "I can fix that."

BB-8 chirped, volunteering too. Power couplings were his specialty.

Poe whipped around, grabbing a random petty officer by his sleeve. "Hey, kid." This boy was tall, lanky, and looked even greener than Mitaka. Stars alive, sometimes Poe felt older than dirt. "What's your name?"

"Thanisson."

"I'm Poe." Heartless totalitarians the First Order might be, but better play nice with his new neighbors. They'd be cohabitating for a while, and Poe would rather not be shot in his sleep. "Would you escort our mechanics to medbay?"

Thanisson shot a dubious look at Lieutenant Mitaka, who nodded sharply. Permission granted.

"This way. Keep up."

Followed by an endless caravan of patients in need, Rose and BB-8 were off to work their engineering wizardry. And not a moment too soon.

"MITAKA!" Greatcoat billowing behind him, General Hux swooped in like a bat out of hell. The lieutenant snapped to attention, and crowds parted in reverence. They were petrified of him.

Poe Dameron was not.

In fact, Poe Dameron took tremendous pleasure in belittling entitled assholes. Call it a hobby. Seriously, though, did Hux ever talk without shouting? Bring it down a couple hundred notches, because that shit was gonna get really old, really fast.

And what a crying shame, nobody else was brave enough to comment on his pomode-less hair and four days' worth of copper-red scruff. C'mon now, the general looked a decade younger and ten times less murderous.

Someone ought to tell him.

"Love the grunge look, Hugs. Rock that beard." As a good, upstanding citizen, Poe did his civic duty. "It maximizes the power of your gingerness."

Mitaka snorted.

Hux was less amused. Scrunching his nose in distaste, he spoke to the lieutenant as if Poe weren't standing right there. "Every word out of these Republicans is nonsensical gibberish." Says the man self-consciously touching his stubble. The gods see you, narcissist. "Mitaka, assemble the senior staff and meet me on the bridge for— "

How exactly Dr. Kalonia juggled a dozen crises at once, Poe had no idea, but she pounced upon the general. "Not a chance in hell d'you qualify for active duty. You're barely fit to walk." She swept a medisensor across his chest, then showed him a screen awash with abnormals. "On account of your hemoglobin concentration being absolute trash."

Anemia be damned, Hux turned an impossible shade of scarlet. Steam nearly poured out his ears, like an angry freckled teapot. With a lil' beard. "You presume to command me aboard my own ship?!"

"I presume to be acting CMO," corrected Kalonia, spitting mad, "unless you have a dagger up one sleeve and a spare physician up the other."

Lieutenant Mitaka stepped between them, diffusing the situation. "I can manage the Finalizer while you recover. Please, general. Please take care of yourself, just this once." That wasn't a professional request. That wasn't laddering-climbing ambition. That was a person, a human, fearful for the wellbeing of another. "Sir, please— I don't know what we'll do if you die."

And for the very first time, Poe Dameron saw his own reflection in a First Order officer.

An epiphany, if ever he'd had one. Poe saw himself in Resistance headquarters, doubting if he'd ever have what it took to lead. He heard himself pleading with General Organa, urging her to sleep, to eat, to take her medication. And he felt terror, purer than anything, at the prospect of losing her, of losing Leia, because what was a rebellion without its princess?

First Order versus New Republic, darkness versus light, them versus us. Maybe the galaxy wasn't so black and white. Maybe the war hurt people on both sides. And maybe, just maybe, Poe ought to rethink his prejudice against people like Dopheld Mitaka.

They were both soldiers, after all. Not so different.

Chilly as ever, General Hux raised a brow. "I've no plans to die anytime soon."

"Very good, sir." The lieutenant took comfort in that. "Your orders?"

Hux contemplated. "Lay in a course for the Queluhan nebula. Its ion field is impervious to sensors and cloaked the Imperial fleet upon retreat from Jakku." He glanced over his shoulder to Captain Phasma and her stormtroopers. "I'll be in my quarters. Until I return to duty, Major Mitaka has the bridge."

Said officer jerked, minutely, staring at the general with profound and genuine worry. Perhaps his injuries affected cognition too. "Understood, but forgive a correction." Mitaka pointed at the Aurebesh on his sleeve. "I'm a lieutenant, remember?"

"You _were_ a lieutenant." If someone like Hux could sound playful, he almost did. Almost. What a weird day. "Consult the quartermaster for your new rank insignia. Major."

With that, he and Phasma left, Hux with a slight limp.

Newly promoted, in the most anticlimactic of ceremonies, Mitaka stood slack-jawed, gaping, wringing his hands. And if Poe wanted to turn over a new leaf, truly and sincerely, now was the time to start.

"Congrats, buddy. You deserve it." Surprising himself, Poe meant that. He really did. Huh. First Order, meet your new roommates. "Now tell me how I can help."

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

With thirteen minutes to spare, the Finalizer jumped to lightspeed.

Undetected and en route to the Queluhan nebula.

Everyone breathed a collective sigh of relief, Resistance and First Order alike. Granted, they were still on the run, nowhere near safe, with much still to do. Wounds to heal. Repairs to be made.

But they lived to fight another day.

As the dust settled, Rey assisted wherever and whenever she could: rolling gurneys with Finn, fetching instruments for Dr. Kalonia, soldering wires with BB-8. Their first few hours aboard the Finalizer were a frantic whirlwind, but with Rose's ingenuity and Rey's scavenging, they restored power in medbay to 99% capacity.

Not bad, for rebel scum. Rose Tico never met a malfunction she couldn't fix, and Rey of Jakku had picked apart enough Star Destroyers to know how to put one back together again.

Still, when those overhead lights finally turned on, the girls fist-bumped.

"We should start a business." Rose wiped her hands on her coveralls. "R&R Engineering and Maintenance, turning their trash into our treasure."

Perfect, in case this whole Jedi thing didn't pan out. "At the rate our friends break stuff," agreed Rey, "we'll make a fortune."

Several more hours passed, busy and hectic and long enough that she almost forgot they were unwelcome guests on a First Order starship. That is, until Captain Phasma came to collect and contain all nonessential Resistance personnel, namely those without medical expertise.

Even the Knights of Ren were rounded up and forcibly separated from Ulic, whose knowledge of drugs and poisons and xenobiology was useful in medbay. Protective as ever, Kylo objected to leaving any of his acolytes behind.

"We can find our quarters without an armed escort." He muttered an aside to Phasma. "Or have you forgotten we once called the Finalizer home?"

The captain shook her head. "Your quarters were reassigned weeks ago, and I won't have you running amok. Not anymore." She cocked her blaster at lightsiders and darksiders alike. In her eyes, Force-sensitives were all metaphysical freaks. "You made your bed with the Resistance. Now lie in it."

Accompanied by a small army of stormtroopers, she herded the rebels to their quarters. Except 'quarters' was a generous misnomer. Eighty freedom fighters, ten droids, two Jedi, and seven Knights of Ren were to sleep in a single shared room, long and narrow and spartan, lined with bunks and charging stations on both sides.

Like the dormitory from hell.

Finn froze in the doorway, introspective. "My squad used to live here." He swallowed, fists clenching, feet planted. "You know… before."

Rose took his hand, squeezing tight. Poe clapped him supportively on the shoulder. BB-8 nudged his boot, humming softly.

Rey didn't like to think about Finn's tenure on the Finalizer, before Jakku, before the Resistance. And she didn't like to think about why there were so many empty beds in a stormtrooper barracks.

She hated killing. She hated war.

Let it end. _For all our sakes._

Already exploring, Jess Pava poked her head through a side door, halfway down. "Refreshers are communal," she announced bitterly. "No stalls."

"Standard 'trooper housing. Privacy's a luxury reserved for officers only." Finn pointed at the ceiling, dotted with small black domes. "And smile for the holocams. Barracks are under constant surveillance."

Rey shivered. That was creepy. "They can watch us sleep?"

"And shower," cautioned Finn, who once knew no other life. Her heart hurt for her brother. Thank the gods he escaped when he did. "Most refreshers are privileged, but not these."

"Oh, fuck that." Poe finally lost his temper. He kicked a nearby crate, which skidded across the floor. "And fuck the First Order. We tried being civil. We bent over backwards to save Hux. And in return they treat us like prisoners?!"

Restless and infuriated, pacing the room, Kylo Ren snapped too. "We _are_ prisoners, you short-sighted imbecile." Rey tried to calm him, reaching out with the Force, flicking his ear, but Kylo slammed the bond shut.

He was livid.

Everyone talked over each other. Anxious bickering amongst the officers. Petty quarrels between pilots and darksiders. Rey could scarcely hear herself think.

Kaydel Ko Connix raised her hand, tentatively. "I realize we've bigger fish to fry." She glanced about the barracks, stark and sterile and silver, bunks made with military corners and First Order sigils on the sheets. "But I'm not entirely comfortable sleeping in the beds of dead stormtroopers. Or showering on camera."

General Organa reassured her. "We'll take sonics on the Falcon." Dozens of people, sharing one tiny refresher? Hardly a sustainable solution. "And you're welcome to sleep there too, but I strongly suggest we all stay here, together."

Master Luke agreed with his sister. "Safety in numbers."

At that, fear saturated the Force bond. Rey felt sick with it, with Kylo's visceral instinct to protect his acolytes. He damn near glued young Qalar to his side, and the others were never more than a step or two behind. At first, she blamed the circumstances, the Finalizer, the First Order.

Admittedly naïve. Such things didn't frighten the indomitable master of the Knights of Ren.

Kylo wasn't afraid of General Hux.

No.

Ben Solo was afraid of his uncle.

Because the last time he fell asleep around Luke Skywalker, he woke with a green lightsaber in his face and his life flashing before his eyes.

Rey knew better than to comfort him. Her bondmate was a darksider. He murdered his own father. And in her heart of hearts, she couldn't guarantee his safety. She couldn't guarantee what Master Luke would do, given another opportunity to kill Kylo or his acolytes.

She didn't know who was right or wrong anymore.

General Organa sensed her people, her Jedi, and her son on the verge of panic, and climbed atop a crate to be better seen and heard. Despite an imposing presence, Leia was in actuality rather short.

"Your attention, please." She waited for the chatter to die down, then read aloud from a fancy datapad, First Order issue. Phasma must've given it to her. "Status report from the bridge. We'll arrive at the Queluhan nebula in approximately 72 hours."

Somewhere in the crowd, Snap Wexley whistled. "Speedy."

"Because the Finalizer runs Gemon-8 ion engines on a III-a1a hypermatter reactor." Seated on a top bunk, legs dangling, Sedriss Ren rattled off some impressive specs, and the scavenger inside Rey drooled with envy. "Most efficient system in the galaxy."

Finn elaborated further. "And unless things changed since I left, main engineering stores enough coaxium to power this ship into the next century."

"Damn," muttered Kaydel. "We're standing on a billion credits' worth of hyperfuel."

Poe scoffed. "Hugs better not expect us to chip in halfsies for gas."

Not even remotely the point. General Organa steered their conversation on topic. "Hux is expected to make a full recovery, but still on medical leave. He appointed an interim XO via field promotion." She checked the memo again. "Major Dopheld Mitaka."

Rey perked. A familiar name. "I met him on Crait." A lieutenant back then, Mitaka seemed shy, but competent and sensible. Perhaps the Force was at work again, putting such a man in charge. "He's nothing like Hux."

"So I gathered, considering the major sent us an encrypted comm." Without further ado, Leia passed the datapad to Rey. "Addressed to one Master Kenobi."

All eyes and ears on her, Rey jerked with surprise. "F-for me?"

"I don't know how you do it, my dear." General Organa smiled to herself, then shot a sidelong look at her son. "But you've a way with First Order boys."

Kylo huffed, deeply affronted, but even his knights laughed a little.

Neither did Rey understand what they saw in her, what about her broke through the oppressive veneer, but she could hazard a guess. "I'm kind to them." She thought of Finn and Kylo Ren, of Armitage Hux and Dopheld Mitaka. What sort of life had these men known? "They've seen so little of kindness."

In the spirit of transparency, Rey played this message from Major Mitaka for everyone to hear. A small blue holorecording materialized above the datapad. He seemed nervous, checking over his shoulder, as though someone might overhear.

"Hello again, Master Jedi." His shoulders sagged, and Mitaka clenched both hands into uneasy fists. He looked as tired as a person could be without falling asleep. "As acting commander of the Finalizer, I would welcome you and yours aboard, except the Resistance is about as happy to be here as the First Order is to host."

From behind, Luke chuckled darkly. "At least he's honest."

Leia shushed him.

The hologram continued, tone laced with distain. "I'm not in the habit of questioning my superior's motives." Rey heard a 'but' in there somewhere. "And must therefore assume General Hux has a good reason for allying us with traitors and war criminals."

Grumbles of irritation and offense from the rebels.

"Hypocrite," spat Poe, turning away, tossing his knapsack and jacket on a vacant bunk. "To think I was nice to him."

"That being said, if I may set politics aside." Holo flickering, the facade crumbled around Dopheld Mitaka — his rigid posture, his regal bearing — and suddenly he looked like a terrified twenty-something with survivor's guilt. "I graduated from academy three years ago, in a class of ten thousand. All but two of us were killed in the Massacre at Kerroc."

Indignant whispers went quiet, and the Resistance listened.

Poe included.

Throat hitching, Major Mitaka forced his words. "My friends onboard the Supremacy died in fear and agony. I can— I can still hear them screaming." Eyes haunted and wet, he swallowed hard. Desperate to feel, desperate to mourn. "And without your help, without your warning, I'd be dead too."

As the message played, Finn moved closer and closer to Rey, weaving warm fingers into hers. At first, she wondered why her brother felt the need to hold her hand, until she realized she was crying too.

Rey couldn't save everyone. But she saved someone. And he was grateful.

That made it all worthwhile.

The major's message played on. "I owe you a debt, Master Kenobi, so let me be candid." He glanced over his shoulder again, ensuring he was alone. "General Hux is ruthless, cutthroat, but obeys First Order law like religion. Follow our regulations to the letter, and at best he'll ignore you."

"Lucky us," mumbled Poe.

Rey shrugged. "Their house, their rules." It worked both ways.

The recording reached its end. Mitaka offered them a gift. "On this datapad, you will find ship schematics, standard operating procedures, crew manifests, shift and meal schedules, everything you need to integrate into the Finalizer." In addition, a few words of cautionary wisdom. "And remember, you are no longer on Republican soil."

It might've come across as a threat, were Major Mitaka not so clearly concerned for their safety. Buried deep, there was good in him. No amount of brainwashing or indoctrination could snuff it out.

The dark side was powerfully seductive, true, but then so was the light. Rey once wondered if there were more Finns hidden in the First Order, decent and merciful people smothered under protocol and tradition.

She had her answer now.

"I'll do what I can to help you, but my loyalty goes first and foremost to General Hux." Deeply deliberate, Mitaka reassumed a callous exterior. Stormtroopers weren't the only soldiers who wore masks. "Don't underestimate him. Don't give him any more reason to kill you. And for the love of all that's holy, don't do anything stupid."

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Dameron did something stupid.

Normally, the idiocy of X-wing pilots mattered very little to Kylo Ren. If you met one, you met them all: overconfident adrenaline junkies, suave and cocksure and reckless, always with one foot in the grave. Come home in your cockpit, or don't come home at all.

Drama queens, the lot of them.

And that was coming from a Skywalker.

The quintessential flyboy, Poe Dameron made a parody of himself: leather jacket, thigh holster, loyal astromech, stupid swagger. Stormtroopers instantly recognized that orange terror droid and vacheads knew his custom starfighter by reputation alone.

They called him the Starkiller's Bane.

A very ominous name for a decidedly not ominous man.

Who was currently locked in the Finalizer's brig.

A diplomat at heart, Leia Organa stood outside his barebones cell, shaking her head in exasperation. "We've been on this ship less than a day, and already I'm bailing you out of prison." She rubbed the bridge of her nose and turned to the stormtrooper on guard. "Do I want to know what he did?"

"Vandalism."

Organa sighed. "Of what, pray tell?"

"He painted over the holocam lenses in your barracks."

Supine on his jail cot, wrists in cuffs, Dameron defended himself. "Because you people have no right to spy on us in the 'fresher." He muttered something under his breath, which sounded an awful lot like, "Voyeuristic pervs."

General Organa didn't know whether to laugh or scream. Probably both. "Where in hell did you get paint, Poe?!"

Present only as his mother's bodyguard, self-appointed, Kylo leaned casually against a bulkhead and let the drama unfold. This was the most entertainment he'd had in weeks, watching the Resistance and the First Order try to coexist.

And fail miserably.

In democratic republics, people do what they want. But in fascist regimes, liberty and personal freedom weren't really A Thing.

Talk about culture shock. On both sides.

"Captain Phasma has every right to spy on everyone, everywhere." Unusually magnanimous for a stormtrooper. Consider, he hadn't shot them yet. Were their roles reversed, a Knight of Ren wouldn't be so patient. "Video and audio monitoring are prudent security precautions."

Dameron wrinkled his nose. "Against what?"

"Mutiny, or in this case, a rebel coup."

The pilot rolled his eyes. "Sure, because we Republicans traditionally hold war council in the shower." Dameron flopped back onto his cot, staring at the ceiling and kicking at his jail bars. "Call me old-fashioned, but I'd rather not contribute to the First Order spank bank."

Kylo winced. Ugh, a mental image he could live without. And to make matters worse, that colloquialism was lost upon a stormtrooper.

His helmet tilted, confused. "What's a spank b— "

"Never mind." Organa groaned, face in palm. "Not important."

Per protocol, she handed over a datapad with the official pardon, signed by Major Mitaka, but with Master Kenobi written all over it. No sooner was Dameron arrested than Rey petitioned for his release. And like most people, Mitaka was no match for the doe-eyed Jedi, complete with heartfelt pleas and tearful lip-quiver.

Her sweet-as-pie routine might fool everyone else, but it couldn't fool the master of the Knights of Ren.

And as such, this entire incident was swept quietly under a rug. General Hux never even heard about it, off duty as he was. Dameron walked without any real punishment, free to wreak more havoc and violate more regs.

And better yet, nobody bothered to replace the defunct holocams. Their overworked mechanics had better things to do.

Resistance: 1 || First Order: 0

Well played, scavenger. 

Later that afternoon, she found Kylo and a few of his acolytes sparring in the rec room. He sensed Rey immediately, on approach and arrival, like a shimmering wave through the Force. At first, she ignored and avoided him, exploring instead — poking and prodding at the barbells, curious about the running track, sizing up the lap pool.

It occurred to Kylo that she'd never been inside a gymnasium before. Funny, as wise and worldly and street smart as the scavenger was. Jakku taught her how to survive, but not how to live.

While coaching his knights, he kept an eye on her too.

Rey eventually stripped off her boots and socks, rolled up her leggings, and dipped her feet in the pool. <Water's warm.> Unclear if she meant for that thought to reach him or it simply slipped through.

<It's heated.> Compared to Craitan squalor, life on the Finalizer did have its perks, and many First Order officers — Hux included — chose to swim for cardio. Kylo preferred running, but to each their own. <D'you even know how to swim?>

<I had to, on Ahch-To.> Nowadays, conversation through the Force bond came as naturally as breathing. <I didn't drown. Suppose that counts.>

In reverence to their fragile new friendship, Kylo almost offered to teach her, except that meant interacting with Rey in swimwear. Which seemed unwise, given his nonexistent self-control and dumpster fire libido.

But then again, imagine her splashing about in a skimpy two-piece, cheeks flushed, tits bouncing. Imagine her musical laugh and lean strength and soft skin. Imagine her clinging to his shoulders in the pool, too nervous to let go, too proud to admit it. Imagine her wriggling in his arms, smooth back to bare chest, all sweat and sass and smiles, until she felt him, hot and hard against her.

Again, as it happened in the TIE silencer. Except this time, Kylo would be ready.

A second chance. A missed opportunity.

Imagine her squeak of surprise, and the apology to follow. "I— I'm really sorry."

She'd be frantic and embarrassed and bashful, intimidated yet inquisitive. Would their bond quiver, like before, as Rey wondered if all men were so big?

_No, sweetheart, they're not. You're just lucky._

"Don't be sorry." With the confidence he wished he had, Kylo would nip at her ear, nuzzle her neck, and slide a hand under her bikini. "I'm not."

And gods alive, imagine her afterward, breathless and ruined and soaking wet, hair a mess, swimsuit askew, searching for a towel as water dripped along her throat, down her breasts and belly, slick between her thighs—

Tempting, for sure. But definitely unwise. And wildly inappropriate.

Rey Kenobi deserved better than to be objectified, even in fantasies.

"Oi, scavenger!"

The reverie broke when Aurra Ren kicked an inflatable balance ball across the rec room. It bounced harmlessly off Rey, but she nearly pitched into the pool. Earned her attention, at any rate.

"Spar with me," demanded his knight, brandishing a quarterstaff at the scavenger. "Ulic's playing doctor, Q and Niney never leave the lab, main engineering stole Sedriss, and these two clowns— " She jerked a thumb at Janus and Caedus, groaning and sprawled across the floor, asses already kicked. " —are sore losers."

"Careful." Only half-kidding, Kylo advised from the sidelines, based on personal experience. "Jedi are sore losers too."

Jaw set, Rey stood, padding off the pool deck in a trail of damp footprints. Around her, the Force shifted, sharpened, radiating spikes instead of waves. "Bold of you to assume I'm gonna lose."

That there was teasing, not malice. He knew his bondmate well enough now to recognize the difference. Nonetheless, she drew her lightsaber — his grandfather's, technically — and stepped onto the training mats.

Challenge accepted. With zeal.

One in black robes, the other white, the girls circled and sized each other. It struck Kylo how uncannily similar they looked: feline grace, hackles raised, weapons ready, tiny yet ferocious. Come to think of it, Rey and Aurra even shared the same posh accent.

Strange coincidence. Very strange.

Save for hair color and upbringing, they could pass for sisters.

Aurra issued fair warning. She was a gifted duelist, Mandalorian style, best among his acolytes and damn close to surpassing her master. "I'll show you no mercy, scavenger."

"Good." Rey flicked her wrist, igniting the saber. It illuminated half her face in serene blue, but cast the other half in shadow. "For you'll receive none."

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Thereafter, she trained with Master Luke every morning and the darksiders every night.

Force, meet balance.

Resolving of gray, indeed.

Rey made no secret of her double life. Housed in such close quarters, nobody in the Resistance had privacy anymore — least of all a padawan from her master. Each evening, like clockwork, she emerged from the rec room with new bumps and bruises, badges of honor after duels well fought.

Everyone noticed. Everyone knew.

And not just because her friends were well-intentioned busybodies. Although, that too. Relegated to their barracks, cramped and cloistered together in the bowels of the Finalizer, Rey couldn't even brush her teeth without an audience.

Of course Finn asked about the welt on her kneecap. Of course Poe asked about the scrape on her chin. They were family. They cared about her, and Rey respected them far too much to lie.

Truth was this: sparring with the Knights of Ren had become a highlight of her day.

Rey looked forward to it, to the banter and roughhousing and thrill. With darksiders, she needn't hold back. She needn't hide her flaws. Kylo never judged his acolytes for frustration or anger or mistakes.

It was liberating, decompressive. He made her feel alive.

He made her feel a lot of things.

Wild, visceral things. Things she had no name for.

Rey still loved Master Luke. She still loved Finn and Poe and the Resistance. And how she wished the light side alone were enough to satisfy her.

But it wasn't. She needed more. She needed both.

She _was_ both, a living dichotomy, a Jedi and a Knight of Ren.

The first of the new.

Apart from morning meditations and evening drills, Rey worked mostly in main engineering, what with three sublights still offline and a shortage of First Order techs. Even in combination effort between Rose Tico and Sedriss Ren, foremost specialists in avionics, repairs to the Finalizer were glacially slow and woefully incomplete. 

They were geniuses, not magicians. Laying low in the Queluhan nebula, under strict radio silence and lightyears away from civilization, resources were limited.

During a status report — informal debrief, held in a busy hallway — Rose shared her professional opinion. "The deflector's toast." To prove this point, she tugged on a loose wire, which stripped from its control panel and showered them in sparks.

BB-8 screeched in alarm, putting into 'words' what everyone else was thinking.

"Well then." Rey crossed her arms. "That's… suboptimal." Bombarded in deep space radiation and interstellar debris, even a Star Destroyer wouldn't last long without shields.

Sedriss scrubbed a hand through his green hair, tied back in a bun. "This is ridiculous. The ship's crumbling around us, and we can't rebuild a battlecruiser on the fly." In outfoxing that dreadnought, the Finalizer took a beating from which she might never recover. "The old girl needs overhaul in a KDY shipyard."

But that was neither practical, nor possible. If they issued a distress call or wandered too close to an inhabited planet, the Supremacy would detect them, hunt them, and kill them all. For now, the misfit crew were on their own, lurking like cryptids in the Unknown Regions.

No shipyard. No army. No backup. Guerrilla warfare only.

_"Godspeed, rebels."_

For what it's worth, Rey volunteered her skills. Once a scavenger, always a scavenger. "Get me scrap metal and blueprints. I can jerryrig replacement parts." She shrugged. "Won't be pretty, but it's better than nothing."

And that's why she currently sat crosslegged on the floor, smack in the middle of a corridor, piecing together a power converter.

Stormtroopers did a doubletake as they walked by. Rey cluttered the hall with odds and ends, nearly tripping a petty officer. Fleet engineers darted about, each busier than the last, and for the rest of the day she caught only occasional glimpses of Rose and BB-8 and Sedriss Ren.

Funny how the Finalizer wasn't so scary, from the inside out.

Just a starship, like any other. Silver panels and shiny floors, harsh lights and sharp corners, wires and pipelines and exhaust vents. The hum of her reactor core. The vibration from her engines. The hustle and bustle in her hallways.

Rey knew only dead battlecruisers on Jakku, in the Graveyard of Giants.

Kinda nice to meet a live one.

Halfway through gamma shift, Sedriss commended her work. "You rebels sure can improvise, even with shoddy tech and broken equipment." A darksider's compliment. Rey accepted. "The First Order never had need. Until now."

"Another reason the Force brought us together." She believed that wholeheartedly. No way was this happenstance. No way was this coincidence. "Only together can we survive. Only together can we win."

Her comlink beeped. Text only.

_Attn. KoR || 8012.121.3 drills cancelled_  
_Private session 2100 GST || Rec. 3, Sect. 10_  
_Re: Force stasis demo_  
_Req. by: R. Kenobi || Host: K. Ren_

Rey read it twice. Baffled, she poked Sedriss. "Did you see the comm— "

" —from Master Ren?" The knight nodded, as though it were no big deal. "If you request one-on-one tutoring, he always makes time. And gives the rest of us a night off."

"Oh." She did ask Kylo for a crash course in Force stasis, but Rey assumed his other acolytes would be there too. Some of them, at least. Whoever was available. But a private lesson, onboard the Finalizer, in the late evening, with the master of the Knights of Ren?

Unexpected. Intimate.

Rey didn't know how to feel. Her heart raced, and her palms sweated, whether from fear or something worse. And she had until 2100 hours to stew.

Sedriss studied her. "Don't be nervous. He's an excellent mentor."

"I'm not nervous," insisted Rey, busying herself with blueprints.

Because that night, she walked into the firing range, nervous as hell.

Kylo was already there, waiting for her, with an assortment of blasters set out on a prep table. "Good evening, Master Kenobi." Dark hair freshly washed, lush and wavy, he wore a belted black tunic with breeches, absent cowl or helm. As usual, the crossguard saber hung at his hip.

A darksider equivalent of business casual.

Though that tunic fit awfully tight. His arms were huge.

Stop. No.

Bad. Heel.

Be professional. "Master Ren." Rey bowed, curtly. She was still half a Jedi. Best behave like one. "Thank you for arranging this. I know your time is valuable, split between six acolytes— "

"Seven," he corrected, with a nod in her direction. "If the seventh will have me."

Hoo boy. Rey swallowed, treading on thin ice. "I'm here, aren't I?"

Kylo suppressed a smirk, then launched into lecture. He really did enjoy teaching. His happiness, rare as it was, seeped into their bond. "Stopping blaster bolts is the most practical application for Force stasis." He handed Rey a SE-44C pistol, standard First Order issue. "You'll start there, then work up."

"To what?"

"Paralyzing people."

Rey fumbled the blaster, regrouping. "Like— like you did to me on Takodana."

Force stasis was remarkably versatile. She wanted to learn, and Kylo offered to help, in return for her someday schooling him in Jedi mind tricks. But freezing gunshots midair was one thing, hijacking bodies quite another. When faced with the reality of controlling someone, immobilizing them, stripping them of agency and free will— 

Rey had been on the receiving end. It was terrifying. It was degrading. It was wrong. Though by that logic, mind tricks were wrong too.

Force persuasion, Force stasis. One mental, one physical. Two sides, one coin.

And both morally gray. A recurring theme.

Kylo sensed her unease. "We can study a different technique, if you prefer— "

"No." Decision made, Rey gripped the pistol and flipped its safety. "Teach me."

She needn't tell him twice, so teach he did. And showed off, just a bit.

Round targets were set about thirty meters down the firing range. Kylo stood sideface, feet apart, right arm extended, palm open and fingers splayed.

Offensive stance. Good form.

"Fire a single shot at the target of your choice," he instructed. "Don't tell me where or when." To square up and take aim, Rey had to draw inappropriately close to him, close enough to feel heat radiating through his clothes. Kylo was so tall. He towered over her. "I'll stop the bolt exactly halfway."

Bond closed, shields up, Rey silently counted down, then pulled the trigger.

If she blinked, she would've missed it.

The blaster bolt froze midair, crackling red, suspended by the Force, precisely fifteen meters away. On the dot. "Stars alive. That's amazing." Rey gave credit where credit was due. Master Ren, indeed. "How d'you control for environmental variables?"

"Years and years of practice. From here, you can change vectors and redirect the bolt." Kylo maintained his pose, back ramrod straight, but angled his arm down. "Your aim's about three centimeters too high."

He clenched his fist. The bolt released, burning through its target, dead center.

Pretentious as ever, Kylo quirked a brow. "Bullseye."

Rey sighed. "You're such an ass."

"Your turn, scavenger."

She gave him the pistol before copying his stance — or trying to, at least. Her elbow was bent, and her shoulders crooked. Without thinking, Kylo moved to adjust her, but stopped short.

"May I touch you?"

How matter-of-fact he said it, while Rey nearly had a conniption. Willing her voice not to crack, her cheeks not to flush, her nose not to bleed, permission granted. "S-sure."

His hands were warm through those gloves, the leather softer than expected, but his touch didn't linger. Kylo straightened her arm, tweaked her shoulders, tiny fixes, very objective, then backed off.

Nothing fresh. Nothing untoward.

Perfect gentleman. And why wouldn't he be?

Rey chided herself, a silly little girl making moon-eyes. His interest in her was purely academic, his arousal in the TIE silencer purely biologic, and the Force bond itself an accident of nature. Men as powerful and privileged and beautiful as Ben Solo don't sully themselves with garbage pickers, much less play for keeps.

He was the Crown Prince of Alderaan, for fuck's sake.

Oblivious to her turmoil, Kylo leveled the blaster at a target. "Ready?"

Their deal was to exchange Force techniques. That's all. Tit for tat. He was upholding his end of the bargain, as soon she would hers. _Don't make tonight into something it's not._

"Ready." Rey shook off distraction, but her skin still tingled from the phantom heat of his hands.

Shot fired.

She reached out with the Force, grabbed for the blaster bolt. Too slow. It slipped through her fingers, careening diagonally, then ricocheted off transparisteel and exploded on the ceiling in a puff of smoke.

"Sorry, sorry!" Rey flinched. How embarrassing. "I'm really sorry— "

"No need to apologize. You're here to learn." Kylo punched a few commands into a nearby console, which replayed holocam footage of her failure. And though she wanted to close her eyes, to look away in shame, Rey forced herself to watch.

He paused the feed at a critical juncture, just as the blaster bolt went awry.

And then they talked about it.

No belittling. No chiding. No esoteric metaphors or arcane Jedi wisdom. Just troubleshooting. They talked about science, physics and photons and the speed of light, how laser energy travels far too fast to 'catch' from behind and therefore must be 'blocked' in front.

It made sense. Rey liked physics. She understood physics.

"Lightsider or darksider, Kenobi or Skywalker, we needn't always be perfect. Make mistakes. Learn from them." Kylo switched off the holorecording. "You can achieve anything, in part because you're too stubborn to give up."

That was… uplifting to hear. Especially from the master of the Knights of Ren, who'd trained enough acolytes to know potential when he saw it. Kylo wouldn't give up until she made Force stasis her bitch, no matter if it took five minutes or five years.

Confidence boosted, Rey resumed an offensive stance, needing no corrections this time.

Kylo aimed the pistol at another target, finger on the trigger. "Ready?" She nodded. "Again."

Success came after several dozen attempts, with much trial and error. Rey projected an invisible wall, halfway down the firing range. When the next shot hit, it stuttered and stalled midair.

Wobbly and cattywampus and nowhere near the fifteen meter mark, but it damn well stopped, thank you very much. Baby steps.

"Well done," said Kylo, despite her imperfect technique. He set aside the blaster and approached slowly. "Hold there. Steady." Fully engrossed in teaching, his attention went more to the task than what was coming out of his mouth. "Don't let go. Good girl."

Her heart skipped. Her breath hitched. The frozen bolt wavered.

Holy hell. Those words in that voice ought to be illegal, and his praise hit somewhere low in her belly, fluttering and achy and addictive. _"Good girl?"_ How patronizing. How dare he.

Rey liked it.

And then Kylo was right behind her, chest huge and solid against her back. With one hand, he reached around, closing his fingers about her wrist and angling it downward.

Right, right. Change vectors. Redirect.

Adjustment made, he whispered in her ear. "Release when ready."

Double entendre, meet lizard brain.

"If you insist." Rey exhaled, closed her fist, and let fly the blaster bolt.

It hit the target. Bullseye.

She whooped with glee, punching the air. "TAKE THAT, FORCE STASIS!"

And before Rey knew what was where, she was hugging Kylo Ren in celebration. If someone foretold this a year ago, she would've called them a liar. But times change. People change. Her feet left the ground as he squeezed her tight, picked her up, twirled her in a circle. The flowy bits of her robes tangled with his legs.

His laugh was deep and baritone. She'd never heard a sound so sweet.

Her friend. Her bondmate. Ben Solo.

He was saved. In that moment, he was back.

Drunk on victory, they finally stopped spinning, if only to catch their breath. His stupidly large hands spanned her hips and waist, holding Rey aloft as if she weighed nothing. And for an endless instant, she was taller than him, looking down as he smiled up.

"You did it." Kylo beamed with pride.

Rey shook her head. " _We_ did it."

At home in his arms, she clung to his neck and broad shoulders. Long dark hair fell into his eyes, over his cheeks, his scar, his beauty marks. And if she leaned in, if she dared, his mouth was close enough to kiss.

Might he let her, now or ever? Rey wouldn't ask for much. Just a taste. Just the once. She'd never kissed a man before. His lips looked soft and plush, made for kissing.

Bond aflame, the Force smoldered and sparked between them. A poison pull, irresistible, like a compass to magnetic north. _Do it,_ whispered something dark and reckless, deep inside her. _Or forever wish you had._

Her fingers curled into his hair. His grip tightened on her waist.

And then, her comlink beeped.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

In a private medbay cubicle, General Hux sat atop the exam table, stripped of his tunic, gloves, and boots. It was late. He was tired.

He wanted this appointment over and done.

Absent any surviving First Order physicians, Dr. Kalonia ran the show with an iron fist, enforcing his medical leave for a full five days. Five fucking days, twiddling thumbs in his quarters, staring out a viewport at the Queluhan nebula and suffering an existential crisis.

Hux had never been off duty this long.

He depended entirely upon Major Mitaka to put out administrative fires. Hour by hour, Qalar Ren tracked the Supremacy, currently lurking in the Grumani sector. Damage to the Finalizer was extensive and questionably fixable. Force-sensitives and rebel scum crawled about his ship like vermin.

And the general had gone stir crazy.

He needed to work. Who was Armitage Hux without his work?

Medisensor in hand, Kalonia scanned him. "Your anemia's strongly regenerative, with no evidence of hemolysis." The doctor entered some notes into her datapad, then deliberately teased, "Ren really was your perfect match."

Hux didn't dignify that with a response, excepting revolt.

He really was not in the mood.

Kalonia prattled on. "I reviewed First Order regulations regarding medical leave." She was surprisingly competent and well-read, for someone trained by the New Republic. "I must officially approve your return to duty, correct?"

"Standard operating procedure." Hux detested such overrides, but rules were rules.

Dr. Kalonia hummed thoughtfully, browsing his chart. "Tell me more about your chronic insomnia and migraines." She gestured vaguely at his neck. "Secondary to a compressed spinal nerve at the fifth cervical vertebrae. Why didn't your previous CMO recommend surgical decompression?"

"He did. I declined."

Ever since Hux was injured as a cadet — combative training, rookie mistake, long story — both Imperial and First Order physicians prescribed the exact same treatment: decompressive neurosurgery. An easy fix, through an incision the size of a thumbnail.

But it required anesthesia. Full on, lights out anesthesia.

And for General Hux, in complete control of everyone and everything, all he heard was that relative strangers wanted to knock him unconscious and carve holes in his spine.

No thank you.

His rebuttal didn't surprise Dr. Kalonia. In fact, she seemed to expect it.

"One of our Resistance officers is a licensed neuropressure technician. I already requested a consult, and he's on his way now." She gauged the general's reaction, which was stoic and underwhelming. "Are you familiar with the benefits of Massassi neuropressure?"

Of course he was. Hux might be married to his job, but he didn't live under a rock.

Who wasn't familiar with the medical miracles of neuropressure? Given his staunch refusal of surgery, Hux once considered it as an alternative. Naught but glorified, therapeutic massage, but if it could palliate his pain, however slightly, however transiently, then what had he to lose?

Only one problem. All licensed practitioners were from Yavin IV.

A little moon that bested the Death Star, a Republican landmark, the beating heart of Populist belief. No self-respecting Yavini would ever service the First Order, nor would a self-respecting citizen of the First Order accept their help.

Catch-22.

Except reality had gone topsy-turvy since the Massacre at Kerroc, and this otherwise abysmal situation revealed its silver lining. Namely, there was a willing and able neuropressure technician aboard the Finalizer.

Intrigued, if skeptical, Hux gave a curt nod. "I'll consider it."

While they waited, Dr. Kalonia wandered off, tending to other patients. Impatience set in, until he finally heard footsteps outside the cubicle, followed by a jovial greeting and excited bleeps from a BB unit.

"Hiya, doc!" came an oddly familiar voice, bright and boisterous. "Why don't you introduce me to this poor unfortunate soul in need of a little TLC— "

Kalonia yanked aside the privacy curtain, revealing a notorious rebel pilot: leather jacket and sweat-stained shirt, dark curls and unshaven stubble, Alliance starbird and orange astromech.

Poe Dameron took one look at his prospective patient, and all humor promptly died. "Oh, hell no."

Just as surprised, and even less thrilled, Hux rounded upon the doctor, deeply betrayed. When she said 'licensed neuropressure technician,' he envisioned another medic, a nurse, a qualified specialist. But then again, the Resistance employed princesses as generals and scavengers as Jedi, so Hux really should've known better.

No way was this flyboy gonna dick around with his neck.

"I decline the procedure."

"I decline to perform it!" Dameron was as volatile as that droid zipping around his legs, beeping in furious binary. He turned to Dr. Kalonia, almost apologetic. "I'd do anything for you, absolutely anything, except touch his pasty ass. Hard limit."

Hux bit back. "As if I'd let your filthy hands anywhere near me."

The thought alone made him queasy. Hux felt exposed, nearly naked, in a sleeveless undershirt and breeches and stocking feet. Identitags jangled about his bare neck, dusted with freckles he hated almost as much as he hated Poe Dameron. Only his pet cat ever saw him so undressed, but Millicent wasn't talking. 

And Hux wasn't quite finished his tirade, either. "Everyone knows the Republic is a cesspool of disease." Fresh from exile, Dameron was undoubtedly behind on vaccines. "I might catch something."

"If only integrity were contagious!"

Kalonia rolled her eyes. "Grow up, gentlemen." She summarized his medical highlights. "Arkanian human male, mid-thirties, 77 kilos, traumatic whiplash sustained during military exercises twenty years ago and severe neuropathic pain ever since."

Hux would rather not publicize his health certificate, especially not to the Resistance, but it sure caught that pilot's attention. "No wonder you're so grumpy, Hugs." Dameron did some mental math. "Decades of neck pain, plus boot camp at age fifteen?"

"Ten," grumbled the general. "I learned combatives at ten."

Blessed silence. Dameron had nothing more to say.

Dr. Kalonia sighed, rubbing her temples. "I really don't have time to argue. Sorry, Poe, but I'm pulling rank. Do as you're told." No fear, no trepidation, she pointed a threatening finger at General Hux. "And as acting CMO, I won't approve your return to duty without sixty minutes of neuropressure."

Hux sputtered with rage. "You can't hold me hostage aboard my own ship!"

"I can, and I will. Standard operating procedure." The doctor used his words against him. "Lie back and think of the Empire, or else I'll extend your medical leave for another week."

Fuck the Resistance, and fuck Snoke, and fuck every bad decision that led the man they call the Starkiller to hit rock bottom: torpedoes blown through his battlecruiser, three-quarters of his crew dead, Ren's blood in his veins, rebels as houseguests, and subjecting himself to Massassi magic tricks, masquerading as modern medicine.

"Fine." If it brought an end to this living hell, then so be it. Hux shoved backwards and flipped onto his stomach. Muffled now, what with his face buried in folded arms, "Get it over with."

Dameron approached, despite a warble from his BB unit, edgy and antsy. His footfalls were hollow against a metal floor, and the general braced himself, unsure what to expect. A monomolecular blade, sheathed in its leather gauntlet and strapped to his forearm, was of small comfort.

Dameron touched his bare shoulders first.

Anticlimactic, really. His palms were dry and rough and warm. A pilot's hands, callused from hard labor and X-wing yokes and months in a Craitan cave.

Dirty, disgusting. When did he last wash? Oughtn't he wear gloves?

Skin crawling, Hux forced himself still as Dameron passed by muscle knots and misaligned vertebrae, positioning a thumb directly over his pinched nerve.

The general twitched. After decades of conditioning, of knowing that spot had always hurt, would always hurt, his body tensed with anticipation.

Not the good kind.

For a few seconds, Dameron stroked and circled with his fingertip, gentle, almost tender. A foreign feeling. General Hux couldn't recall the last time somebody touched him, skin to skin. Not since that one fumbling dalliance during academy, which met an early and embarrassing end.

A messy affair, he remembered. Wholly unsatisfying, between two teenage boys with more hormones than sense. The other cadet was a year older, selfish and rushed. Hux also endured that facedown. Awkward, complicated, more than a little painful.

And certainly not worth repeating.

A perfectionist at heart, Armitage Hux hated anything he wasn't good at or in control of. Turns out, sex fell into both categories.

Here and now, Dameron loomed over him, and the general loathed every second spent helpless and hurting and prone. But that soft kneading on stiff shoulders, the heat from his hands was… not entirely unpleasant.

If he closed his eyes, if he wished hard, Hux could pretend this man was anyone except Poe Dameron, anyone except a treacherous Republican lowlife from the Outer Rim.

As though he somehow heard the insult, somehow felt it through his fingers, the pilot twisted his hand, brutally hard, and dug his thumb into Hux's sore neck.

Cue the worst pain he'd ever experienced.

"Aarghhh— " The general roared, agony unchecked. " _Damn you!_ "

Hux tried to launch off the table, but Dameron was stockier, physically stronger, elbow jammed between his shoulder blades, fingernail buried in a raw nerve.

No quarter, no pity, the pilot hissed in his ear. "For Hosnian, asshole."

"Poe, stop!" Dr. Kalonia yanked him away, abating vicious pressure.

But the pain lingered long after. Hux groaned aloud, rolling onto his back. Neck aching, head pounding, spine flayed open. He might've blacked out for a second, and his left arm went numb.

Chirps from that orange astromech sounded suspiciously like laughter.

Hellbent on revenge, the general plotted all manner of excruciatingly slow and creative executions. Parnassos venom, perhaps. An old favorite, but not immediately available.

In the interest of time, he swung about and donkey kicked Dameron in the gut.

He  _oofphed,_  doubling over. His droid wailed with worry.

"For Starkiller," snarled Hux. "Asshole."

A very busy woman, Kalonia finally lost her temper. "Enough of this pissing contest! You call yourselves officers?!" She shot Dameron a look that could kill. "Put some ice on that. I'll be back in an hour. And if Hux isn't putty in those hands, so help me you will _both_ regret it."

The doctor left in a huff, snapping the curtain shut. That BB unit followed, imploring on its master's behalf.

Alone now, Hux and Dameron glared daggers from across the cubicle.

Eventually, the pilot spoke. "Maybe we, uh— " He gulped, suddenly anxious. "We should probably do as she says. Finish the neuropressure."

"You must be joking." Hux still couldn't feel his arm. His neck hurt even worse than before. Uncivilized ruffians. He'd get better care from an Ewok.

"You don't understand. I'm already on Leia's shit list." Dameron wrung his hands, visibly nervous. "First that incident with the holocams, then the fire on Deck 13— " 

Hux blanched. "What fire on Deck 13?!"

"Uh, never mind." Those shifty eyes were far from comforting. "All that matters is how scary Dr. Kalonia and General Organa can be when they're mad."

Dameron took a step closer, and Hux unfurled his monomolecular blade, ready to cut throats. "Touch me again," he warned, "and I'll repurpose your ribcage as a chandelier."

"Wait, please." The pilot froze in his tracks. "Please hear me out."

Not begging. Not quite. But close enough to pique his interest. Ah, the sweet music of a Resistance supplicant pleading for mercy, fear in his eyes, desperation in his heart.

Never gets old.

"I'm listening." If only to string Dameron along and torture him a bit more.

"Look, I just— I'm sorry, okay?" An apology though clenched teeth. The pilot resented each word, and nothing beats the sight of a deflated flyboy. "I made the neuropressure painful on purpose. It feels nice when I do it carefully, correctly.

Hux tilted his chin, haughty and unconvinced. "More likely you're incompetent."

Jaw twitching, Dameron reined himself back. Deep breaths, in his nose, out his mouth. "Let's start over. Clean slate." He scrubbed a hand through unkempt hair, those stupid curls akimbo. "Proper neuropressure."

Says the man who crank called a Star Destroyer in the midst of battle. Hux raised a distrustful brow. "You're fucking with me again."

"No fuckery. Pilot's honor." Dameron gestured at the exam table. Open invitation. "Gimme ten minutes. If you still hate it, we'll stop."

Hux glanced between the pilot, the table, and the exit. Twenty years with nerve pain, exacerbated by Force chokes and Snoke tossing him about. Short of drilling holes in his neck, Massassi neuropressure was the next best treatment. And unless the First Order fleet arose from its grave to seize Yavin, never again would he secure another willing practitioner.

Though 'willing' was a rather generous term for Dameron's motive. More so compelled, under threat of court martial and Dr. Kalonia's wrath.

He twitched his wrist, retracting the monomolecular blade.

" _Five_  minutes." What choice did he have? Sanity threadbare, General Hux wouldn't survive another week of medical leave. "But we tell the doctor it was sixty."

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

At the far end of medbay, Rey found the CMO office.

She'd been summoned.

Clearly the will of the Force.

If her comlink hadn't beeped when it did, cue the biggest mistake of Rey's life. Counting that time she ran off alone into a Takodanan forest. And that time she shipped herself to the First Order in a flying coffin. And that time she was arrogant enough to believe she actually killed Darth Plagueis.

Worse than those combined.

She almost ruined everything.

She almost kissed the master of the Knights of Ren.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Her judgement was clouded with adrenaline and success and the Force. That must be it. Crossed signals. Rey mistook the natural connection between bondmates for something physical, something carnal, something more.

Kylo Ren wasn't hers to covet. And neither was Ben Solo.

He only just escaped the yoke of the Sith. He had six acolytes to teach and protect. They were at the mercy of General Hux. And whether in days, weeks, months, or years, they had to defeat Snoke, to defeat Plagueis, to defeat the Supremacy herself.

They had to kill someone who proved, over and over, unkillable.

Rey couldn't afford distractions or indulgences. Not when her friends depended on her. Not when the lives of billions hung in the balance.

And besides, Jedi are supposed to keep it in their pants.

So there.

Rey entered the office. As expected, Dr. Kalonia and General Organa awaited her, the former behind her desk, the later up and pacing. But the third person was a surprise: Aurra Ren, complete with black cowl and auburn braids and a quarterstaff leaning against her chair.

The knight twisted around, impatient. "Took you long enough."

"I was training." Rey didn't elaborate. She didn't need to.

"Right, right." Aurra hummed. "Your private session with Master Ren."

Leia froze midstride, wordless and poker-faced, but every inch an inquisitive mother. Excellent, fabulous, exactly what Rey needed. Did nobody on the Finalizer mind their own damn business?

"Not as sordid as it sounds, general." Though not as innocent as it ought to be, either. Rey flopped into a vacant seat. "I asked Ben to teach me Force stasis. We were running drills."

"Ah, that's what we're calling it now." Aurra waggled her eyebrows.

Rey snapped. "Can we not talk about this in front of his mum?!"

The darksider conceded, still smiling to herself. General Organa was too.

Thankfully, thankfully, Dr. Kalonia intervened. "I apologize for calling so late, and on such short notice. I was preoccupied with a, uh— difficult patient." She opened her desk drawer and produced a handheld device: an automated blood-typer, the very same one used to match Kylo Ren as a donor for Hux. "I further analyzed the samples collected on Crait, screening preemptively for tissue compatibility between Resistance and First Order personnel."

"In case of another time-sensitive emergency," clarified Leia.

Clever idea. Rey made a cognitive leap regarding why she and Aurra were both here. "We're a match, I presume?"

Hesitating a moment, Kalonia slid her datapad across the table. "Yes."

Rey sighed with relief. Being summoned by superior officers, after hours no less, she automatically assumed the worst. But this was good news, wasn't it? 

Unsure, she turned to Aurra. "I'd donate blood if you needed it."

But she wasn't listening. Aurra picked up the datapad, scrolling through their labwork, then stared pointedly at the doctor. "Is this accurate?"

"We wondered too," admitted Leia.

Kalonia added an aside. "Ran it in triplicate to be sure."

Marvelous, now Rey was worried again. "Is what accurate?"

Dr. Kalonia folded her hands atop the desk. "For reference, Lord Ren and General Hux share a relatively uncommon blood type. Less than 1% of the human population." Only then did the bomb drop. "You and Lady Aurra share a blood type that's over a million times rarer."

Nobody said anything for a long while.

Aurra finally broke the silence. "Meaning what?"

"Meaning it's statistically impossible, unless you're related."

…

What.

_What._

"Related." Brain stuck on a loop, Rey parroted the word. "Biologically?"

Aurra glared, sidelong. "What other kind of 'related' is there?"

A scientist first, Dr. Kalonia presented her evidence, walking them through the genome comparison. It was an admittedly complicated mess of numbers and letters and confidence intervals. Rey tried to pay attention, to understand the diagrams and charts, but her mind was elsewhere, reeling.

Related. Biologically.

A family. Her family.

The family that left her on Jakku. The family she waited for, all those years.

Kalonia pointed to the largest peak on a line graph. "Your most recent common ancestor was Mandalorian, either a grandmother or great-grandmother." She sounded muffled, as though Rey's ears were clogged. "Details are still patchy."

"No." Aurra Ren pushed away, crossing her arms. "That's impossible."

Rey found her voice, small and trembling. "Is it, though? Obi-Wan was my paternal grandfather, but we've no idea who bore his child." She must've been quite the woman, for Master Kenobi to forsake his vows. "And we've no idea who my parents are."

Bloodlines can only tell you so much.

General Organa took over. "Luke allowed us access to his holocrons." Those records went back to the old temple on Coruscant, names and images and genetic fingerprints from every Jedi for a thousand years. "Though you and Lady Aurra are cousins, she is definitively _not_ a descendant of Obi-Wan."

"Of course I'm not." The very notion offended Aurra. "My mother and grandmother were proud Mandalorians, and neither one fucked a Jedi."

Dr. Kalonia was practical to a fault. No nonsense. "Well, there's a 99.9% chance that somebody in your family fucked a Jedi." She pointed, unapologetic, at Rey Kenobi. "Proof is sitting in my office."

Leia pushed for more. "To which clan did you belong?"

The knight hesitated, true name rejected in favor of Aurra Ren, but eventually came clean. "I was born Bo Kryze."

Whatever the general expected, it wasn't that, because she almost hit the roof.

"You're a Kryze." Feigning calm, but Force signature afire, Leia leaned forward. "As in Clan Kryze, the Mandalorian royal family?"

Rey startled, dumbfounded. Would the wonders never cease. "Royal what of where?"

After everything they'd been through together, undercover incursions and dogfights and nightly spars, Aurra neglected to mention she was a long-lost princess, abducted from her home and turned to the dark side.

Rey had read fairytales less dramatic.

"Our duchy is extinct, a relic of past glories." Aurra set her jaw. "Most children captured by the First Order feed their stormtrooper program, but the Supreme Leader took special interest in Force-sensitives. I was given to the Knights of Ren instead."

General Organa was kind, but insistent. "And my son is aware your heritage?"

"I keep no secrets from my master."

"How old were you? When the First Order seized Mandalore?"

"Five."

Rey flinched. She hated fighting. She hated war. And damn Snoke, damn him to hell, for tearing apart family after family. He destroyed the Solos, the Kryzes, and how many more?

Leia put it in perspective. "House Organa was to Alderaan what Clan Kryze was to Mandalore." She slumped back in her chair, flooded with distant memories. "When I came of age, the Imperial senate tried to strong-arm me into marrying Duke Kornelius."

"Uncle Korkie." Those were the cutest words ever to come out of Aurra Ren. Usually so cold and aloof, her fondness for him ran deep. "My mother died in childbirth. He raised me."

Highborn families were a web of surnames and titles, but Princess Leia knew them all by heart. "Your mother, his sister?" Aurra nodded. "I remember them both, Korkie and Shae, sole heirs to the Mand'alor."

"My grandmother, Bo-Katan."

Dr. Kalonia cleared her throat. "If memory serves, Lady Bo-Katan was a rather complex political figure." A euphemism, Rey suspected, soon confirmed. "A militant terrorist who served Darth Maul and betrayed her own sister."

Aurra stiffened, defensive. "Satine was a pacifist. Just as controversial, if not more."

"Yet both stood heroes, in the end." High praise, from Leia Organa. "And since the duchess died childless, her crown rightfully passed to her sister, then her nephew."

Nothing controversial about that, except Rey Kenobi was suddenly part of the equation. A junker from the Western Reaches, going toe-to-toe with royalty in a game of thrones. But whenever she found answers, more questions followed.

"So where do I fit in?" wondered Rey.

Nowhere, she realized.

She'd no place in Clan Kryze. By all accounts, she didn't exist. And despite everything she achieved, all the good she did and lives she saved, Rey would always be a nobody, a mystery, a Jedi's dirty secret, the girl a galaxy forgot.

Dr. Kalonia reached across the desk, squeezing her hand. "This investigation is far from over. We're onboard a Star Destroyer, with open access to the archives of the Empire."

"You deserve the truth, Rey." General Organa smiled, comforting and wise. "You deserve to know who you are."

Surprisingly enough, even Aurra Ren offered what help she could. "Uncle Korkie never married, but he was very fond of women. And women were fond of him." She appraised Rey, up and down. Their resemblance was uncanny, and now they finally knew why. "If someone in my family had a secret bastard, bet on the duke."

That night, Rey couldn't sleep.

Careful not to wake Finn in the bunk below, she stayed up obscenely late, head buried under her blankets and staring at an old holoimage of Kornelius Kryze.

The last Duke of Mandalore.

He was regal and handsome, with sandy-blonde hair and a strong jaw and winning smile. That white lily pinned to his lapel, worn every day, was an homage to his late aunt. And they really did call him Korkie.

Rey reached out, fingers passing through the holo, as if he were a ghost.

This man might be her father.

Delving into the Finalizer's databank, she read about him.

Korkie Kryze was born amid confusion and bloodshed and civil war. Exact date and time and location unknown. Politics split his clan in half — raised by Duchess Satine, peaceful unto death, but reconciled later in life with his warrior mother. Together, he and Bo-Katan liberated their people, avenged the murder of his aunt, and ushered in a golden age.

Together, they ended Imperial occupation of Mandalore.

That is, until the rise of the First Order.

Deposed and in exile, Korkie died a broken man, age 53, drunk and alone. He'd lost everything: his family, his throne, his homeworld. Taken, stolen, destroyed by the Sith and the Empire and the First Order in succession.

Clan Kryze died with him. Like his aunt, the duke had no children.

Officially.

Because bastards don't exist.

Officially.

Rey studied his face. He didn't look like someone who'd sell his daughter for narcolethe. He didn't look like someone who'd abandon his only child on Jakku.

Which meant one of two things: either Korkie Kryze wasn't her father, or there was much, much more to his story.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Neuropressure. Round two.

The medbay cubicle seemed smaller now, somehow tighter, more oppressive and claustrophobic. Once again, General Hux situated himself facedown on the exam table. It was metal, cold and unyielding. His identitags jingled as he shimmied and shifted, getting as comfortable as possible while feeling humiliated.

How the mighty fall.

And if Dameron pulled another stunt, he was a dead man.

"May I begin?" Uncharacteristically diffident, for a flyboy.

Hux hated everything about this. Every single solitary thing. But he really wanted to return to duty. He needed to return to duty. Preferably sometime this century.

"Proceed."

Neuropressure commenced. This time, the intention was different. Pure, serene, unhurried. Palms pressed into his back, kneading through his undershirt. Dameron avoided that pinched nerve altogether, moving instead to the base of Hux's skull. Fingers trailed lightly up his neck, eventually wedging under his chin.

Could that part of the body get sore? Apparently it could.

"Pressure okay?" asked the pilot. "You hold a lot of tension in your jaw."

Hux huffed, a noncommittal sound.

Dameron moved further down, along his throat, slowly, deftly. "Your neck's all sorts of jacked." His fingertips grazed over half-healed bruises, splotches of purple-green against pale skin and freckles. Hux bruised very easily. "Are these all from the Massacre at Kerroc?"

What possessed the general to admit, "Snoke strangled me with a Force projection of my dead father," he'd no idea.

Dameron jerked in surprise, steady hands faltering. "Fuck, really?" He shook his head with disbelief and resumed the neuropressure, exquisitely careful. "I'll talk to Rey," resolved the pilot, thinking aloud. "Maybe she can teach us to resist Force attacks, to fight back— "

"People like us can't fight back against people like them."

Dameron disagreed. "Rey says everyone has the Force, even you and me."

He advanced from neck to shoulders. With the pad of a thumb, Dameron massaged through muscle and tendon to clip that very sensitive spot. Again. This wrung an involuntary sound from General Hux — not quite a yelp, not quite a groan.

Compressed spinal nerve at the fifth cervical vertebrae.

"Sorry, sorry." The pilot eased off, earnest enough. "My bad."

He rubbed instead between Hux's shoulder blades and along the valley of his spine. Perfectly adequate, soothing even, but so were injectable narcotics. Perhaps those rumors touting neuropressure were just that — rumors. In his head, the general counted down seconds until his escape.

Five minutes. That was their deal.

Adding insult to injury, Dameron was insufferably chatty. "You shaved your beard." What had Hux done to deserve smalltalk? Let this misery end. Let him be introverted in peace. "D'you miss it?"

"I didn't grow it on purpose." Hygiene went by the wayside while unconscious in a Craitan cave, but upon return to the Finalizer, Hux found a razor at first opportunity. "Facial hair is against regulation."

You could almost hear Dameron roll his eyes. "Hang regulations. You're free from Snoke now."

General Hux considered that too, but he didn't follow protocol for fear. He followed protocol to bring order to chaos. His military career began before any Supreme Leader, and it would endure long after.

As would the First Order.

"I never had a beard before," confessed Hux. "It was itchy." Good enough reason to be rid of it. "And several crewmen didn't recognize me in passing."

"You looked really different." Dameron amended, "Good different."

What an odd thing to say.

During this inane and pointless conversation, the pilot snuck his thumb closer and closer to that pinched nerve. Perhaps he thought Hux wouldn't notice, but noticing things was his job.

"Attack me again," warned the general, "and I'll execute every rebel on this ship."

"I'll be gentle, I swear." Dameron stood his ground. "But you gotta let me touch it."

Hux bit his tongue, tense and steeling himself, smothering any hint of weakness. Bad enough that Poe Dameron had discovered a kill switch. One solid jab to one itty bitty nerve, and General Hux of the First Order was out of commission.

Paranoia consumed him.

Could you kill somebody with neuropressure? Could you render a victim comatose, sever innervation to their heart or diaphragm? Maybe this was an elaborate ruse, an assassination attempt, a reckless Resistance ploy to eliminate Hux and hijack the Finalizer.

But the pilot kept his word.

Feather-light, the barest ghost of a touch, Dameron bore down into the flesh of Hux's neck. It didn't hurt. Not exactly. It felt like… he wasn't sure what it felt like. Strange, for sure, as pins and needles shot through his left arm. His fingertips tingled.

"Pressure still good?" Dameron couldn't help but tease. "I'm going awful easy on you."

"Switch off," grumbled the general, head resting on folded arms.

To conclude his medical leave, doctor's orders were to undergo neuropressure for an hour. Period, end sentence. Chitchat not required. And if they lied about five minutes being sixty, then the less Kalonia knew, the better.

Five minutes became ten.

Ten became twenty.

Hux lost track of time, because this definitely didn't hurt. Quite the contrary.

It felt good. Really kriffing good.

Dameron made small, rhythmic circles with the rough heel of his hand, directly over that offending nerve. Ineffectual he might be, neuropressure was anything but. General Hux had the most advanced medicine in the galaxy at his disposal, and not even a hypospray could ease his pain so well as this.

Digging deeper, Dameron hit another knot, torqued just so.

Something gave.

For the first time since his injury, in literal decades, every muscle in Hux's neck went limp, soft, pliant. He felt the release down to his toes, explosive, like a coiled spring. Arching into it, gripping the table like a lifeline, his moan was very loud and very immodest.

Passersby might wonder which dirty holovid they were watching, because holy shit.

_Holy fucking shit._

His pulse fluttered. His breath caught. His head spun.

Armitage Hux thought he knew what pleasure was.

He'd no idea. Not until now.

Suddenly that feather-light touch was nowhere near enough.

"Therrrre he goes." Dammit, but that flyboy was gloating. "Want more or less?"

Hux heard himself croak, "More," though the word was distinctly imploring, not authoritative. He coughed, tried again. For clarification. "More is… fine."

More was not fine. More was a religious experience.

As with his starfighter, Dameron was annoyingly and naturally gifted. He dug warm fingers into Hux's neck and shoulders, through his undershirt, all the way down to the small of his back. Tension melted under his hands, and every touch triggered another wave of shivers and heat.

Already overwhelmed, his body couldn't process it all. Hux was trembling, head to toe, and chewed his lip to stave any indecent noises. More than a few escaped.

Stars alive, he was drooling.

Did first-time neuropressure typically render the patient nonverbal, or was he a hypersensitive outlier? This very well might be addictive, because in that moment, if a black hole swallowed the Finalizer, her general wouldn't care.

He exhaled through his nose, lulling his head to one side, and shut his eyes.

Just for a minute. Just for a—

He woke over an hour later.

Painfree.

Hux sat bolt upright, hand flying to his neck.

Twenty years of twinging and twitching, of sore muscles and throbbing headaches and restless nights. Drugs dulled it. Icepacks numbed it. But after sixty minutes of Massassi neuropressure, the pain was gone.

Not better. Gone.

Before this exact instant, General Hux couldn't even remember what comfort was. His brain took a long moment to recondition, to grasp and fathom the concept of relief.

From across the cubicle, Dameron cleared his throat. "Kalonia stopped by. You're approved for duty. No restrictions." He held a First Order tunic by the collar — clean, if wrinkled — and tossed it at Hux. "You snore, by the way."

Hux dressed quickly, fastening his collar and uniform clasps with the speed and ease of practice. "I do not snore." How undignified. He hadn't slept in the company of another human since his academy dorm.

For the first time ever, Dameron didn't argue. "Feel better?"

"Marginally." No sense in padding an already overinflated ego.

He hopped off the table and collected his effects: greatcoat, belt, boots, gloves. All the things that made General Hux, well... _General Hux,_ even if Snoke did burn his life's work to the ground.

"Analgesia from neuropressure lasts a few days. Maybe a week." Dameron leaned against a cabinet, crossing his arms. "It's not one and done. You need repeat sessions."

Hux hadn't thought that far ahead. He paused, only one arm in his greatcoat.

Dare he do this again and again, bearing his body and soul to a captain of the New Republic, once weekly, forever? He survived this long without neuropressure. Strictly speaking, he didn't need it.

But did he want it?

Silence, for at least a minute, as he donned boots and gloves.

"General Hux?"

His title, delivered with none of Dameron's usual snark or derogatory nicknames. No mocking, no jabs. Odd enough for Hux to pivot, brow raised in reluctant curiosity.

Void of humor, the pilot now stood with his arms folded behind his back. Parade rest. Unusually formal.

"During the Battle of D'Qar," he prefaced, "when I insulted your mother. I didn't— I didn't know." Gone was the wisecracking smart aleck, replaced with a downcast gaze and fumbled words. Imploring, honest, almost ashamed. "Resistance intel said she bore you out of wedlock, not that she died during the Siege of Arkanis."

Hux twitched minutely, rage broiling. He'd many other reasons to open fire at Black One, but Dameron ignited the final fuse, hit another raw nerve.  _"Hugs, with an H? Leia has an urgent message for him. About his mother."_

How dare they. How fucking dare.

Flinging strategy out an airlock, General Hux had lost all semblance of poise and composure. His mother was a gentle lady, an unarmed civilian, and the Republic slaughtered her anyway. They slaughtered a lot of innocent Arkanians.

Which is why, thirty years later, he stood proud upon Starkiller Base and returned the favor tenfold.

Dameron went on. "The Republic killed your mother, and then I slandered her memory. An unintentionally low blow." He bowed his head, deeply contrite. Their eyes met, warm brown on cold blue. "I promise I'm not that cruel. And I deserve every shot you fired."

The general knew no response except, "Finally we agree on something."

Dameron blinked through long, dark lashes. "I'm trying to apologize, asshat."

"Too little, too late," goaded Hux. "Send your apology to Hosnian."

To each his own fuse, his own raw nerve. Fueled by hate, the pilot spat in his face. Quite literally. Saliva hit Hux square in the eye.

"I try and try to be civil," snarled Dameron. "I try and try to play nice. But you're a monster. You all are." As if he himself were such a monument to morality. Hypocrisy was alive and well in the Resistance. "And you'll suffer as murderers do, whether in this life or the next."

Cool and collected, General Hux wiped his cheek. "Then I'll see you in hell."

That pilot spent the rest of his night in the brig.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Poe and Hux were screaming at each other again.

Inevitable, given two officers on opposite sides of a war. Unstoppable force, meet unmovable object. But then again, the Finalizer was three kilometers long, with the Resistance onboard less than a week.

You'd think they could avoid each other, maybe reel it in, but those hotheads couldn't even breathe the same recirculated air without inciting a diplomatic incident.

While idling in the Queluhan nebula, hidden from the galaxy, they ought to cooperate and strategize. Today could've been an historic accord: the New Republic and the First Order, gathered in a ready room, tense if tactful, to decide how they might defeat the Supremacy and kill Darth Plagueis before he laid waste to worlds.

What they got instead was Captain Dameron and General Hux spewing vitriol.

Although they _were_ sitting together. In a meeting. Around a table. In theory, like civilized people. Populists and Centrists, Jedi and Knights of Ren, scum and villainy, in a slow but steady march toward conciliation.

These were their first steps.

Or a prelude to homicide.

Fifty-fifty.

"Your helmsman is dead," spat Poe at Hux, "and you can't fly the Finalizer into battle on autopilot." Far too accustomed to getting his way, Poe would not let this go. "You have me, for better or worse, so swallow your pride and use me!"

The general bit back. "The only thing I'll ever use you for is target practice."

"I'm the best pilot this side of the Rishi Maze!"

Hux didn't budge. "You'll not set foot on my bridge, much less take the helm."

For all their shouting, Rey couldn't get a word in edgewise. Seated next to Kylo, she reached out with the Force and flicked behind his left ear. <They're even worse than us.>

Counting that time Rey dropkicked him into the snow and slashed open his face. How far they'd come. Now her worst crime against Kylo Ren was to pretend their almost-kiss never happened, while secretly craving to earn _"good girl"_ again.

Oblivious, her bondmate shrugged. <At least they don't have lightsabers.>

True, but Poe Dameron and Armitage Hux had blasters and torpedoes and starfighters and Star Destroyers instead. Whether this was help or hindrance remained to be seen.

And, selfishly enough, Rey welcomed any distraction that took her mind off Clan Kryze of Mandalore. She lost too much sleep staring at a holoimage of Duke Kornelius, wishing and wondering, hoping and praying that his was the face of her father.

But never mind that. They'd a Sith lord to vanquish.

Priorities.

First on the docket: prevent Poe and Hux from throttling each other.

General Organa came to the rescue. Per usual. "A pointless argument, gentlemen. You're both pretty." She nursed her third cup of caf in as many hours. "Now shall we resume this council?"

"Sometime today," mumbled Kylo — no, actually, that was Solo sass.

For goings-on outside their cozy little nebula, Qalar Ren had intel. That poor boy practically slept with his datapad, playing a deadly game of cat and mouse with the Supremacy. "Last night, Snoke deployed tens of thousands of probe droids to scour the galaxy in search of the Resistance."

"Can you track them?" Hux, of course.

The young knight shook his head. "Forty thousand are in circulation." Rare indeed, for Qalar to cede defeat. Though to be fair, that was a shit-ton of probe droids. "And we launched proximity detectors. If a mynock sneezes inside this nebula, we'll know about it."

Next came a political debrief, hopeless and bleak.

Major Mitaka delivered it like a eulogy to the galaxy they once knew. "It's utter chaos out there. A second Dark Age." According to the HoloNet, their situation went beyond dire. "Without a navy for protection, planetary governments are crumbling under pirates and crime syndicates." 

In the wake of the Hosnian Cataclysm, many systems had fallen to the First Order, from Coruscant to Tatooine to Naboo. But who ruled them now?

Certainly not the Republic remnant, decentralized, running scared. And neither the fragmented First Order, floundering after the Massacre at Kerroc, absent a Supreme Leader and high commanders.

The galaxy had descended into lawless anarchy.

"We cannot hide in this nebula forever." A woman of action, Leia took her stand. "We cannot abandon our people to suffer and die."

General Hux rebuffed her. "To reveal ourselves now is suicide. I ran countless simulations, Finalizer versus Supremacy." Battlecruiser against dreadnought, titan on titan. "Even at peak efficiency, our odds of victory are only 3,720 to one."

"And this ship is nowhere near peak efficiency." Rey participated firsthand in emergency repairs, which were cursory at best. "I pieced the deflector back together myself, and three sublights are still offline."

Hux latched onto that. "Our chief engineer was among the recent causalities." If he felt any remorse at the loss, it didn't show. "Who replaced him?"

In silent agreement, without missing a beat, everyone pointed down the ready room at Rose Tico.

"Oh." A surprise for the Resistance mechanic. "I missed that memo."

Needless to say, General Hux was visibly furious. Rebels represented an ever-increasing portion of his senior staff — first CMO, now chief engineer — and he could do exactly fuck all about it.

Oh, and Rose once tried to bite off his finger.

Temper checked, the general took a deep, centering breath. "Status of repairs?"

After a week crawling through Jefferies tubes and utility corridors, Rose knew the Finalizer better than she knew herself. They were in very capable hands. "Yours is a fine ship, tougher than most, but she needs overhaul in a KDY shipyard. No way around it."

Poe interjected again, still on his high horse. "Doesn't 'peak efficiency' also require a not-dead helmsman?!"

"Don't push it, Dameron." Consider, this was Kylo Ren telling somebody to simmer down and listen to Hux. Just think about the absurdity of that sentence. "Unless you fancy another night in the brig."

Sedriss posed a question. "Realistically, in which one of 3,720 simulations did the Finalizer destroy the Supremacy?" That wasn't skepticism. It was curiosity.

A slim chance was better than none.

General Hux passed around his datapad. "Attack formation Z-13, modified for ventral assault. A dreadnought is most vulnerable along her belly, at the reactor core." As he explained, Rey read the report over Kylo's shoulder. "To execute it successfully, the Finalizer needs to make a 180-degree barrel roll with a simultaneous hairpin turn at full impulse. While taking heavy fire."

Kylo barked a laugh. "You're kidding."

That death glare suggested Hux was most definitely not kidding.

On Jakku, alone in the AT-AT she called home, Rey ran too many dogfight sims to count. "We're talking about a Star Destroyer here, not an X-wing." She loved flying as much as the next Jedi, but even a Force-sensitive can't cheat the laws of physics. "The Finalizer's too broad, too massive for such a maneuver."

Sedriss concurred. "Our helmsman would have mere meters of wiggle room, only nanoseconds of reaction time— "

A lightbulb went off in Poe Dameron, who flailed and nearly toppled from his chair.

"Do we have access to the new Sienar-Jaemus flight interface?!" Sometimes, when Poe got excited, his mind moved too fast for mere mortals to comprehend. Case in point, Rey had no clue what he was talking about. "Their neural interface, the one in beta testing?"

Sedriss understood, apparently. "We have a functional prototype in R&D."

"And you claim it optimizes pilot performance to near robotic precision."

"How is this pertinent?" Hux was not even in the general vicinity of fucking around anymore. "Sienar-Jaemus designed that interface for TIE silencers— "

Poe interrupted again. "That's what it's designed for, sure, but let's dream a little bigger. Let's employ the neural interface on a larger scale. For example— " He grabbed the datapad and quoted Hux verbatim. " _'To execute a 180-degree barrel roll with a simultaneous hairpin turn at full impulse in a Resurgent-class starship,'_ and send Snoke straight back to hell where he belongs."

A hallowed hush descended upon the ready room.

Rebel ingenuity, meet First Order technology.

All is as the Force wills it.

From a practical standpoint — chief engineer, after all — Rose gave her blessing. "It could work. A ship's a ship, no matter the size."

Now they needed official permission from a ranking officer. Standard operating procedure in the First Order. Rey actually read their regulations manual, unlike some people. _Poe._

With that in mind, attention fell to General Hux, who remained stoic and silent for a long minute before snapping, "Major Mitaka." His XO startled to attention. "Your thoughts?"

Nervous, if composed, Mitaka swallowed hard. "I agree with Captain Dameron, sir."

Holy shit. No hedging. The shock on Poe's face was priceless.

Hux inclined his chin. "Elaborate."

The major was nothing if not obedient. "His logic is sound. And after Master Skywalker, he's the most experienced pilot onboard." Like it or not, Mitaka just made a new best friend in one Resistance flyboy. "We should outfit the Finalizer with a neural interface. It's our only hope to best the Supremacy in battle."

General Hux nodded. Simple as that. "Very well. Make it so, but not at the expense of other systems. In crisis, we maintain life support, hyperdrive, and shields, in that order."

Leia reminded them of the bigger picture. "We should also assemble a list of planets that host Kuat Drive Yards. Nobody better to repair a Star Destroyer than the company that built her."

"Already done, ma'am." Major Mitaka was way ahead of her, scrolling through his datapad, rattling off the list. "KDY headquarters on Kuat and Corellia, obviously, with secondary factories and shipyards on Cymoon I, Lothal, and Naboo."

General Organa weighed their options. "I still have friends on Naboo, the deposed queen among them. Not exactly an ace in the hole, but a place to start." For security and encryption, she looked again to Qalar Ren, slicer extraordinaire. "Can we send a message without the Supremacy intercepting?"

"Not from the Finalizer." His hands were tied. "Comm blackout is the only way to make a ship truly invisible. And if Snoke detects a manmade transmission, originating inside a lifeless nebula— "

Qalar trailed off. Game over. They might as well advertise their position on all frequencies.

Poe reclined in his chair, boots propped on the table. "An away mission, then. The Finalizer stays here, safely hidden, while we road trip the Millennium Falcon to Naboo."

"Too risky." A statement, not a question, from Kylo Ren. "Her former Majesty despises the First Order, me in particular."

And whose fault was that? Hostile takeovers don't exactly garner local support.

Not to mention the controversy surrounding his inheritance of House Nabarrie's fortune and ancestral seat at Villa Varykino. Reasonably so, the Naboo deified his grandmother — Senator Amidala, a pillar of democracy, martyred in the Clone Wars — and Ben Solo was a blot upon her name.

A darksider, a turncoat, the master of the Knights of Ren.

Talk about salting a wound.

"We are scions of House Nabarrie, and that alone will compel Queen Sola to help." Leia was unwaveringly confident, though her son still had doubts. "To betray us would be to betray her people, her predecessors, her oath of office."

Hux scoffed. "We need her shipyards, not her vote."

The whole point of this fool's errand was to repair the Finalizer, to see her battle worthy with a fighting chance against a dreadnought. No small feat, even under the best circumstances.

And therein lie problem number one.

Hull plating and deflector arrays and replacement parts for a Star Destroyer were inherently gigantic. Resurgent-class battlecruisers were so large that Kuat Drive Yards famously assembled them in orbit. Dozens of X-wings could fit inside the reactor core alone.

Ergo: bring their broken ship to the manufacturer, not the other way around.

And therein lie problem number two.

If the Finalizer came within sensor range of Naboo, much less idled in a shipyard, their cover was blown. As far as the galaxy knew, Armitage Hux was dead and buried above Kerroc, along with his crew and his fleet. Should they miraculously reappear — especially the First Order's favorite general, their last living high commander, lazarused from his grave — it would break the HoloNet.

Snoke wouldn't just hear about it. He'd hear about nothing else, ever again. That media shitstorm would rival the firepower from Starkiller Base.

Debate and discussion raged on, until Rose Tico raised her hand. "What if we induce a comm blackout on Naboo itself?"

Quiet, for a long moment, as her suggestion took root.

"Challenging, but possible." Qalar typed furiously on his datapad. "I could write an algorithm that jams all outbound transmissions from the planet— "

" —and broadcasts false ones instead." Rey's excitement built. Short term, this could work. This could really, honestly work. Thank every god in the heavens for Rose. "White noise, bogus banking, old HoloNet news on a continuous loop."

Visibly intrigued, General Hux steepled his fingers. "A living, breathing officer might notice a bot answering hails, but the Supremacy is fully automated now that Snoke possessed her mainframe."

"And if her sensors overlook something, then so does Snoke."

True, that when Rey struck him down, Darth Plagueis became more powerful than anyone could possibly imagine. Essence transfer into a dreadnought. A cheap trick. An impossible twist.

But his greatest strength was also his greatest weakness.

"Because Snoke isn't _on_ the Supremacy." General Hux smiled, actually smiled — devious and vindictive, but a smile nonetheless. "He _is_ the Supremacy."

"It's settled, then. No time to lose." Leia slapped the table. "I'll lead an away team to Naboo. We leave tomorrow morning."

Protective panic lanced through the Force, and Rey took a moment to realize it came from Kylo — no, no, Ben Solo. A son fearful for his mother's safety, out there in the big bad galaxy. Especially with a Sith lord on the loose.

Not that Princess Leia was a wilting flower. Not by a long shot.

But she was still his mama.

Rey acted fast. "You should take a bodyguard, General Organa, preferably two." Nonchalant as possible, gesturing between herself and her bondmate, "May I suggest Ben and myself?"

Leia agreed, deeply grateful. "Thank you, Masters Jedi."

Ooh, snap. Nobody mislabeled a Knight of Ren and got away with it. On impulse, Kylo opened his mouth to object, to correct her, but Rey grabbed his wrist.

<Leave it.> She left no room for argument. <If I can be both, so can you.>

His jaw twitched, displeased, but he said nothing.

"I'm coming too," insisted Poe, as if they expected any less. "If only for a chance to fly the Falcon."

"I volunteer as well." Dopheld Mitaka, without hesitation.

Hux vetoed that idea. "Negative, major. Should the worst happen, should the Finalizer come under attack, we need you here at gunnery." Thinking hard, he folded gloved hands atop the table. "I'll go instead."

Mitaka didn't like that. "Respectfully, sir, I must protest— "

"I'm a high commander of the First Order. My fingerprints and retinal scans will be necessary to override security at the Palace of Theed."

Poe pushed back too. "The galaxy thinks you're dead, Hugs, and this plan hinges entirely upon you staying dead." He had a point. They were screwed if Snoke caught wind of survivors from the Massacre at Kerroc — or worse, found the Finalizer herself. "You can't wander around Naboo. Someone will recognize you."

Hux disagreed. "We'll be undercover."

"You, undercover?" Poe snorted. "That's hysterical."

The general prickled. "Explain."

Poe shrugged. "Because nothing draws attention quite like a hot redhead."

Rey choked, Leia facepalmed, and the Knights of Ren laughed up a lung, but Hux flushed to the tips of his ears, surprise quickly replaced by spitting, sputtering, seething rage.

"Of all the vulgar, impudent— "

Poe raised both hands in mock surrender. "Don't shoot the messenger. Your face is all over the HoloNet, too distinctive, too memorable." Rubbing his chin, planning and plotting, he appraised the general. "Maybe, _maybe,_ if we dye your hair— "

Oh, hell. Rey plonked her head against the table. Here they go again.

Hux recoiled in abject horror. "Absolutely not."

"For the sake of the mission." Poe was relentless. "You'd make a cute brunette."

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Spoiler alert, they didn't dye his hair.

A missed opportunity, in Poe's humble opinion, but Generals Organa and Hux made the final call regarding who, what, when, where, and how. For subtlety, their away team was small, only five members strong.

Leia Organa. Rey Kenobi. Kylo Ren. Armitage Hux. Poe Dameron.

An interesting entourage, with multidisciplinary skill sets.

To say the least.

In those precious few hours before their departure, Qalar wrote a customized algorithm and loaded it onto a code cylinder. As requested. "Plug this into any command console at the Palace of Theed." He gave the device to Leia, fresh from his laboratory. "A virus will autoinstall and corrupt all outbound communications from Naboo."

General Organa accepted the gift, kissing his cheeks. "Where would we be without you, Q?"

"Doomed," answered the knight, bowing deep. "But may the Force be with you, when I am not."

Next, undercover prep. Both the Resistance and the First Order had similar protocols: strip yourself of comlinks and datapads, of objects with sentimental value, of anything that might betray names or ranks or political affiliations.

For Leia, it meant no jewelry, no gowns, nothing elaborate. She dawned coveralls, fixed her hair into a crown braid, and voilà. Not a princess to be found.

For Rey and Ren, it meant changing their robes and concealing their lightsabers. From hooded cloaks to practical boots, both wore shades of muted gray. Whether a show of solidarity or complete coincidence was anyone's guess.

For Poe, it meant leaving behind his flight jacket and his mother's wedding ring. He entrusted the homemade necklace to BB-8, who promised to guard it with his life.

And as for Hux, who knew. Did he own any clothes without a First Order sigil? Doubt it. Poe hadn't even seen the general since yesterday. Maybe he changed his mind and decided not to go.

Good riddance.

They stockpiled rations and hyperfuel and ammunition. They programmed an approach to Naboo and its Lake Country, where freighters came and went without suspicion. They loaded the cargo bay with goods for trade — a cover story, should anyone ask.

And t-minus two hours to takeoff, Poe boarded the Millennium Falcon.

Maybe, just maybe, if he asked extra nicely, Poe might get to fly her.

On every pilot's bucket list, to helm the fastest ship in the galaxy. And despite the seriousness of their mission, he was as excited as a kid during Fete Week. Poe couldn't resist a quick peek into her cockpit.

Just a peek. He wouldn't touch anything, except to sit in the captain's chair.

En route down the Falcon's main corridor, he passed Rey in a maintenance alcove, tinkering with the deflectors, as well as an unfamiliar man in the galley, unpacking rations. The later wore standard Republican civvies: dark trousers and utility belt, knee boots, thigh holster, white linen shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbows.

Nothing distinctive or noteworthy, except that Poe didn't recognize him.

Odd, considering he knew everyone in the Resistance. It wasn't a large organization. It never was.

Curious to a fault, Poe stopped, backpedaled. Still facing away, this stranger rose from kneeling. He was tall and lean, with freckles along his bare forearms and the back of his neck. A copper-red beard matched his unstyled hair, side-swept and just long enough to cover his ears.

Wait. _Wait._

No way.

No kriffing way.

Without thinking, Poe grabbed the mystery man by his shoulder and spun him about. This met with a condescending sneer, from high cheekbones to blue eyes to thick sideburns, and a sharp, disciplinary slap to his hand.

"Don't touch me, pilot."

Poe recoiled in surprise.

Though that Arkanian accent was unmistakable, its owner was otherwise incognito, expertly disguised as rebel scum. Dressed down as he was — sans uniform and greatcoat and pomade, sporting a beard again — even the stormtroopers wouldn't recognize General Hux.

Redhead or not.

And to think, only yesterday Poe deemed it impossible. _I stand corrected._

Once sallow and severe, Hux looked so different now. So soft, so casual, so normal. His bumps and bruises had all but healed. Those bags under his eyes were gone. Since the neuropressure, he even carried himself easier, lighter, less ramrod.

Sleep and self-care suited him.

As did that open neckline and exposed collarbone. Poe wolf-whistled. "Going gloveless, Hugs?" Stars alive, this mission just got 200% more fun. "Scandalous."

The general shoved past him, out of the galley. "Piss off."

Still marveling, Poe followed. He had some very pressing questions and, legendary or not, the Falcon's cockpit could wait. "Where's your monomolecular blade?"

His forearms were naked, a leather gauntlet nowhere to be seen.

"In my boot, if you must know."

Reasonable alternative. Poe pressed on. "How'd you regrow a beard overnight?"

"Keratin generator," muttered Hux, hopping into the smuggler's hold and rummaging through a supply crate.

Impressive, what with loose hair and civvies and a little scruff, he was more than passable for a Republican — until he opened his mouth, of course. Poe couldn't deny that. "You look like a totally different person!"

The general glared, which made him remotely Huxlike again. "Shall we review 'undercover' as concept?" Amongst the cargo, he found what he was looking for: loose-leaf tarine tea and a kettle. "Now help me log our rations. Or find some other useful employment."

Poe saluted. "Aye, sir." He mocked an Arkanian accent. Very badly. "Right away, sir."

Hux gave up. "I hate you."

The feeling was mutual. "I know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo… I owe you all an apology for the (almost) 8,000 words of enemies-friends-lovers Reylo and Gingerpilot shippiness, snuck into an otherwise respectable plot. Forgive me?
> 
> Thank you to beta reader [mob-lake](https://mob-lake.tumblr.com), whose humor and headcanons brighten my day, and to [pianopadawan](https://pianopadawan.tumblr.com) for hosting the wonderful [Gingerpilot Holiday Special](https://gingerpilotholiday.tumblr.com)!
> 
> Please join me in the comments for discussion, theories, and Q&A. Or, if you'll forgive the unfortunate absence of female-presenting nipples, come say hello on [Tumblr](http://praemonitor.tumblr.com). Meeting you is the best part of writing!
> 
> Happy 2019!


End file.
